Tumble Turn
by corbyinoz2
Summary: When Gordon discovers something that challenges everything he knows about himself and his family, he does what he can to keep it secret. But however much he hopes otherwise, blood will tell... Series
1. Chapter 1

Tumble turn

Part One

Chapter 1. Kick

It all began for Gordon when he squirmed his way between Scott and Scott's latest girlfriend possibility, Kate Nguyen, and mentioned Scott's membership of the Honey Happies fan-club. Or, at least, it all began to come to light and change the Tracy family forever when he did so. Gordon's introduction of the whole Honey Happies thing was deeply dangerous for several reasons; the Honey Happies kids' show was renowned as being the cheesiest thing outside a pizza joint, something no cool person would ever have anything to do with; Gordon knew how much Scott liked Kate and wanted her to like him, and equally, how much he loathed Honey Happies and all who sailed in it; and Gordon had secretly joined Scott up for the Honey Happies fan-club himself, much to Scott's ongoing horror and annoyance. The roar that Scott gave when Gordon played his hand was a deeply impressive one, and Gordon counted it amongst his Top Five of All Time. Score.

Gordon also decided that discretion being the better part of valour, and survival being the better part of traumatic injury, and most importantly, that going while the going was good were all philosophies he could really get behind right about then. He twisted away from the enraged Scott's outstretched hand and dived back into the homely melee that was the annual Coniston county fair. His quick mind showed him three potential escape routes, and he chose the one that led him behind the jellies and relishes stand knowing that Scott always avoided the two garrulous old women who were currently putting out their wares for the afternoon shift.

"Hello, Mrs Abernathy, Mrs Krause." He ducked in behind them, crouching down. "How are you today?"

"Why, Gordon Tracy. Aren't you just growing like a beanstalk?" Mrs Abernathy beamed at him in a motherly way that Gordon and all his brothers had long come to distrust.

"Whatever are you up to?" Jessica Krause said, winking. Gordon gave her a disarming grin.

"I'm hiding from my brother, Scott. He's kinda mad at me."

Both women chuckled indulgently, and both women's eyes sparked with an avid desire to know all the details. Scott was a naturally polite boy, and his dislike of the women was a well-earned one. Gordon was hiding behind the two most shameless gossips in the county.

"Alright now. Suppose you tell us what you've been up to, and we'll see if we can't keep that big brother of yours out of the way?"

Gordon looked at Mrs Abernathy, his eleven year old face instantly assuming an angelic air.

"It really wasn't anything bad. I guess I bugged him too much in front of – " And there, Gordon stopped. His mischief did not extend into the malicious, and he knew that handing these two women information that Scott regarded as private would only end in hurting his brother. Hastily, he amended his original thought into "- in front of his old elementary school teacher."

"Which one, dear?" And Gordon could see the gleeful wheels turning behind Mrs Krause's assumed kindliness. Anything at all was grist to these old curtain-twitchers' mill. So Gordon thought of his least favourite teacher, and grinned.

"Mrs Broughton. She teaches math."

"Oh, yes, Alicia Broughton." Mrs Abernathy leant forward, intrigued. "Now what were she and Scott talking about, Gordon sweetheart?"

"Uh – I think you have customers." Gordon gestured to where several people were milling at the front of the stand, and the two women swung back to their wares, leaving Gordon free to wriggle back through the boxes stacked behind the stand before they could question him any further. He squeezed down under the canvas tent side into the sunshine, beaming. He considered it all a successful, if not quite brilliant, Scott-attack and withdrawal; he had driven Scott apoplectic, escaped retribution (albeit temporarily), had not said anything that would come back on either himself or Scott, and if challenged he could truthfully say he had seen Scott talking to Mrs Broughton that day, so…

Well satisfied, he was about to break cover when he looked up and found that Scott had brought Kate Nguyen around behind the stalls tent and was now standing less than four feet away from where Gordon crouched, momentarily stymied.

There were any number of pranks that Gordon was happy to pull on his brothers, but eavesdropping on their amorous affairs was something he was not willing to do –less from any sense of decorum than from the fact he had eavesdropped on his elder brothers to disastrous effect last year and he had well and truly learned his lesson there. A further tactical withdrawal was immediately required, so Gordon simply hit reverse gear and wriggled back under the canvas and amongst the boxes.

From there, he could look out between the legs of the stand's trestle and watch the people strolling about, unaware of his watching. He could take a large breath, and let the unique scents of the county fair overwhelm him; the smell of popcorn crushed into the summer dust, the oil and grease from the rides, the beckoning of hot dogs and candy floss, and under it all the smell of corn ripening in fields stretching out a hundred miles in each direction.

He could also hear what Mrs Abernathy and Mrs Krause were talking about as they settled back after selling three pots of their jellies.

"Oh, that poor boy. Every time I see him, I think it's such a shame."

"Oh, I know. I know. Well, I always say it's the quiet ones who stand to be watched, and I knew it when I he brought her home. I took one look and thought, mm-mm. You better keep an eye on this one, young man. Too good to be true. And of course, she was."

"Butter wouldn't melt."

"Butter indeed. Three little boys at home, and her – well, I won't speak ill of the dead, but I guess we all know where she went and what she did."

Gordon sat very still. For some reason, his stomach had begun to twist.

"It's in the Bible. Your sins shall find you out, it says, Jessica. The Lord's very clear. Those that sin shall always be found out."

"And to look at him now, well, he's the spitting image of you-know-who. I wonder they don't blush each time those boys come to church."

"No shame."

"No shame." Gordon wasn't sure who was saying what, but he knew that one of them was leaning closer to the other and dropping her voice. His own throat was so tight he couldn't speak even at a whisper.

"And then to have another! Well, all I can say is, she must have kept him on a very tight leash."

"Oh, but didn't you know? He was the one who started stepping out. Some woman in the city."

"I did not know that!" The excitement in the woman's voice was palpable. "So he was no better!"

"If you ask me, he drove her to look outside the home. What's good for the goose..."

"While the cat's away..."

Both women cackled, immensely entertained by their topic of conversation. The laughter died away, and one of them sighed deeply.

The sympathy had obviously swung about.

"Poor little thing. There it is. Three beautiful boys, and that man has to go and find his pleasures with some slut in the city while she's stuck at home."

"And they are nice boys."

Another pause, another subject leap.

"He's so brave. It must be hard, odd man out."

"Cuckoo in the nest."

"Do you think he even knows?"

They paused to reflect on that question, giving it the weight of an amusing little puzzle.

"Well, he must. Oh, I don't know! Ruth Tracy might not have allowed it, you know, and what she says goes in that household."

Gordon gave a shuddering little in-breath, unconsciously digging his fingers deep into the grass. His whole being was focused on the women in front of him and their inexorable, unbearable gossip.

"But my dear, does she even know?"

It was obvious that the notion of knowing something Ruth Tracy didn't was a delicious one.

"The father must know, surely? Or do you think she kept it from him?"

"Do you think she could? Maybe at the start, but he must have seen you-know-who about the place. Anyone with eyes can see it!"

"Well, good for her if she did! Good for her, I say."

"I bet she did. And then they had the other little one. Brought him to heel, no doubt."

"Brought him to heel! Oh yes. Five boys. Brought him to heel alright!" And they both cackled again, the domestic tragedy they were so carelessly unfolding meaning nothing to them but an immensely satisfying stroll into schadenfreude.

"Oh, the brambleberry, Mrs Torrens? Well, certainly. You know, I think it's my best batch ever this year. It's the climate control, so much easier to work with these days."

With the knowledge that the women were distracted, Gordon took the chance to slither in a desperate silence backwards until he came out into the sunlight again. His violent urge to get away from this – this nonsense, this garbage, these lies and slanders and lies and nothing to do with his dad, his dad, not his dad, not – oh god, Mum, not Mum – robbed him of any thought but escape. He paid no attention to anything else, which made his mistake inevitable. His sneaker-clad feet bumped straight into Scott's shins, and his elder brother yelped before looking down and then reaching to grab Gordon's ankle and yank it.

"Oh look, Kate. Look what comes crawling out from under those boxes when you lift them." He pulled hard enough to drag Gordon completely free of the boxes and hold him upside down, arms pin-wheeling helplessly. "Hello, little brother. Helping out the jelly stand, are we?"

"Let me go!" Gordon arched and kicked, but Scott was strong enough and Gordon small enough that his efforts were in vain. From where he was suspended Gordon could see Kate's approving smirk, and beyond them, Virgil and Alan descending upon them, looking equally amused.

"Did you win it in the lucky dip, Scotty?" Virgil tilted his head, frowning slightly. "Are you sure you want to bring it home with you? You know Grandma doesn't approve of filling up the place with junk."

"Hey Gordy!" Alan waved enthusiastically, his own head upside down to meet Gordon's eye. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Yeah, I think you've got a point, Virg." Scott pulled in his stomach and hitched back as Gordon flailed towards his groin, barely missing. "I think I should just dump this in the trash."

"Let – let me go!" Gordon kicked out harder, his back twisting and flexing so wildly that Scott was forced to open his grip and step back, dropping him into the dust where his momentum kept him spinning for a moment or two.

"Whoa." John strolled up, eyebrows raised in mild appreciation of the whirling dervish Gordon had become to escape. "Settle down, Gordon. You'll do yourself an injury."

"He'll do all of us an injury at that rate," Virgil said, grinning. Alan stepped forward to offer a hand, but Gordon batted it away, rolling over onto his hands and knees and coughing at the rising dust he'd disturbed.

"So. Gordon. What was that you were saying about some ridiculous kids' show?" Scott peered down with patently fake concern. "Care to let Kate in on the story about how you stole my v-cert password and ordered that fan-club rubbish illegally?"

Gordon couldn't breathe. It was the dust. The tightness in his chest, the sickness in his stomach, it was the dust. He coughed again, trying to drag in a breath, wiping at his face and suddenly aware that there were tears and snot trailing down towards his open mouth.

"Nothing?" Scott straightened up. "Fair enough. Just thought you were so keen to share with Kate here, I'd give you a chance."

"If he were my little brother…" Kate said.

"You have brothers and sisters?" Virgil, being polite.

"Ugh. One of each."

"Yeah, they can be a handful alright."

"How would you know?" That was John's voice. Gordon tried to draw in air again, and the effort sent his stomach rolling. "You've only got two younger than you. Try three."

"Try four." Scott's voice became brisk. "Okay, folks, time we hit the road. Ah-ah. No whining, Alan. Grandma said home by five. Once Gordon's stopped having kittens or whatever the hell he's doing."

"Gordon?" Virgil's voice came from somewhere closer, and Gordon realised he was bending over to get a better look at him. Instinctively, he ducked his head away, a fourth son's inbuilt horror of showing tears overriding almost everything else. "Hey, Gordo, you okay?"

"Gordon?" That was Alan, and oh god, now it was becoming a freak show. They'd all be over him, and he couldn't bear it. Not now.

"Go away." He pushed out haphazardly, connecting with someone's shoulder but keeping his head down where the tears and snot could drop to the ground, unnoticed. "Just all go away."

"Gordon, hey. Hey, it's okay." Virgil's hand was on his shoulder, and his tone held nothing but concern. "Come on. Let's get you up and home, okay? Been a long day."

But it hadn't been a day. It had been a year, a century, since they'd all piled into the old sedan that morning, looking forward to a day of sun and sweetness and the rush of the rides. All that lay in the long distant past, a memory, an archaeological site of the family that was. Time had rushed through and left Gordon standing on the edge of a gulf, his brothers safe and happy and together on the other side. He hung his head lower, starting a cough that became something else, and before he could say anything he lurched forward, spewing the day's hotdogs and candy floss and sodas in a noisome stream across John's shoes.

"Oh, that is disgusting."

"Yeah, thanks Kate, I got that." John, from right above him and yet somehow far away. "Al, get me some water, would you?"

"Gordy?"

"Yeah, he'll be okay, Allie. Just get me the water, okay? Need to clean this off, and I think Gordon would like to rinse out his mouth, right?"

"Just all – all go away!"

"No can do, Gordo." Scott stepped up. "Come on, buddy, let's get you home. Hey." He squatted down, and Gordon shrank from him, hiding his face in his shoulder, heedless of the mess on it, wanting only to be unseen as his heart thumped a tattoo of misery and his head tried to find a path through the new world he had been thrust into. He didn't want anyone to notice, to make connections, to suddenly realise.

He wasn't a Tracy any more.

He wasn't a Tracy any more, and surely that would be written on his face. Surely, someone was going to say it, was going to sit back with a "You know, Gordon, I never saw it before but you sure do look a lot like – "

"Here." Scott was holding him, tipping a bottle of water towards his mouth. "Take a sip, kiddo, spit it out." It was the strong, protective Scott at his side now, and Gordon felt fresh sobs coming. He shook his head, and someone else put a hand on the back of his neck, gently. Probably Virgil. Virgil was always the most dependable of his brothers, the one he could always rely on when he was in real trouble.

But this was a trouble Gordon could never put into words.

Someone handed him a handkerchief, and he grabbed it gratefully, covering his face before wiping at it roughly as If to wipe away his traitorous features. The hand on his neck squeezed, comforting him, and Scott clapped his shoulder.

"There you go. That's better."

"Oh, my god," Kate said. "Stop babying him."

"Don't you have to go now?" Alan, scrappy as ever.

"Can't you see he's just stuffed himself all day and now he's in trouble he's making a fuss?"

"Interesting take on an upset kid throwing up," John said drily.

"Upset? Wow. You just don't even see how much you're being played right now, do you?"

"Guess not. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go wash off this pretend vomit."

Gordon breathed through the sodden handkerchief, eyes closed, wishing he was a thousand miles away, wishing he was anyone, anywhere else.

"Well, I'm not here for babysitting. Scott, are you going to take me home?"

Scott left Gordon's side, standing upright. His voice was cold.

"Sorry, Kate. I have to get my brothers home. I'm sure your folks are still waiting for you."

"Fine. I'll be going then. Oh, and Scott, forget about that thing we talked about before. Not in a million years."

Scott nodded. "Good to know. See you around, Kate." He didn't sound put out by the declaration. Gordon saw Kate's feet spin around and take her away from them, spitting up whorls of dust as they did so.

Hands came under his arms and lifted him slowly to his feet. He kept the handkerchief at his face, compulsively scrubbing.

"Come on, Gordo. Let's go home." Virgil wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "Did I tell you I won third prize for my watermelon? 'Strue. Got the ribbon to prove it. And Grandma got first for her fruitcake."

"Yeah, except they thought it was a rock sculpture paperweight." John chuckled, coming alongside. "She won in the home handicrafts section. Judges said they never saw such a clever and realistic rendition of a fruitcake in a medium other than foodstuffs."

"You won't tell her, will you, Johnny?"

"Nah, Alan. She's got a blue ribbon, that's all she needs to know."

Somehow, they got to the car. Gordon sat silently in the back, staring out at the landscape that could have been his father's moon for all he recognised it. His brothers left him alone with the honest understanding of boys who managed to push each other too far on a regular basis and knew how to implement damage control when they did.

He stepped into the house that now seemed to echo with all the secrets it had seen, and still kept. His grandmother's smile was a lie, his brothers' boisterous play a mockery. He put himself to bed without eating any supper, half listening as Scott explained about the fair, and brotherly shenanigans, and how he'd be fine in the morning.

He lay wide-eyed in the dark until long after everyone had gone to bed and to sleep, and not long after he finally succumbed, he startled awake to a new and unpleasant sensation in the bed.

That was the first of a long series of nights that Gordon Tracy woke to find he'd wet the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Nocturnal missions

Holding the bundle of sheets, pyjama bottoms, and towel as tightly wrapped as he could, Gordon made the silent and sorry little midnight pilgrimage down to the laundry in the basement one more time.

It was one he'd become so familiar with that he no longer needed a flashlight. Carefully past Scott's room, because Scott slept in a sort of earnest state of vigilance – Gordon once joked that Scott slept at attention, and even though everyone laughed (even Scott), it wasn't far wrong. Easily past John and Virgil's room, but watching for the tell-tale sliver of light under the door in case either of them was up late into the night, studying (the freaks). Super stealth mode for the landing outside Dad's room. Dad was often away, working, but sometimes he'd come home at a very late hour so Gordon knew never to take the Dad stretch lightly. Carefully down the stairs, and always stick close to the bannisters when navigating step numbers twelve and fifteen.

Grandma's bedroom was on the ground floor. She liked it there because she was first up each morning and she said she could attack the day without disturbing anyone. By that she meant lighting the fires, tidying up the mess left by five busy boys, cooking seven breakfasts, starting anew the eternal battle with the laundry. Gordon knew that she was long asleep in the early hours of the morning, but that she sometimes stayed awake until midnight reading, so his own strategies depended on just when he'd woken, wet and stinking and ashamed, again.

It was so tiring, and Gordon was tired beyond anything he'd ever known before. Partly from the nightly ritual of stripping his bed as quietly as he could so as not to wake Alan (that would be disaster, right there), sneaking down through the house in the cold and dark to the laundry, and then sitting there watching the machines do their washing and drying. That part only ever took about twenty minutes once he'd figured out how to set the microwave powered laundry unit properly. Another ten minutes for the ionisation decontamination, and the load was done. The disruption to his sleep, and then the effort to trek back to his bedroom, re-make his bed and try and warm himself up enough to fall asleep again was enough to wear him out.

But it was the miserable mental processes that exhausted him as much as anything physical. Each night he waged the same battle. Here, in the hopeful corner, stood his army of denial. _Those two old women were making it up. How would they know what happened on this farm? And so what anyway, Dad will still claim me for his son, they couldn't manage without me, hell, imagine how boring this place would be if I didn't liven it up once in a while. Alan couldn't deal with it, Virgil wouldn't stand for it, Scott would have someone's head on a platter, if –_

And here, swooping in from the terrified corner, the army of despair. _If they kicked me out. If Dad said "You're no son of mine, you have no place here." If they all looked at me with contempt, hatred._

 _If they didn't look at me at all._

Gordon would always pull his knees up, perched on the folding table, watching the lights flashing on the laundry unit.

What if they didn't acknowledge him? That's what people did, isn't it, they 'acknowledged' someone as their son. What did that mean? What if they didn't? Did that mean that no one would look at him, speak to him, that no one would acknowledge his existence? It was the ongoing waking nightmare that came crashing into Gordon through all his powers of resilience, impressive though they were.

He saw himself at the family table, surrounded by his brothers, his dad, his grandmother, and they were having their usual boisterous conversations, plates passing, jokes flying, questions and admonitions and the odd bread roll sailing through the air until Dad Put His Foot Down. John would be surreptitiously trying to read a book – he always sat at the end by the old bureau so he could kind of turn and support the book on the lower shelf while still sitting at the table. Eating was optional, if the book was really good. Alan would be talking non-stop about how he'd spent his day, regardless of the fact it was almost always the same thing he'd done the day before, with minor variations according to the weather, injuries, and if the dog had misbehaved. Virgil would be humming some new tune under his breath. They'd tried a 'no humming at the table' rule, but it was hopeless, and abandoned once everyone realised Virgil didn't even know he was humming. Scott would be trying to talk to Dad, and Dad would be making vague noises in response as one half of his brain wrestled with some design problem. Grandma would be displaying a level of vigilance the World Security Force would envy, stifling all attempts at misrule. And Gordon…

Gordon would be a ghost. He would pull at sleeves, he would crack jokes, but no-one would hear him, no one would look his way. He would reach for plates that simply passed by him, untouchable. In his nightmare he would begin to shout and wave his arms, and the Tracy family en masse simply talked around him and over him.

Unacknowledged. Not there. No longer Gordon Tracy.

It was this nightly battle between his two visions of the future that wore him down, piece by brittle piece. Grandma noticed it, and insisted he took a tonic each morning which he claimed was made from the armpits of rabid trolls. It didn't stop her from forcing it down him in a bid to cure his shadowed eyes, his lack of energy. Scott noticed it, and had tried trapping Gordon on the landing one day to ask, in that kind of official, important way he had, if there was anything wrong. Gordon gave him a masterclass of deflection through annoyance which, sadly, Scott was too straight to appreciate. Virgil noticed, and he was far more subtle about his approach, getting Gordon to help him with the horses one day and gently steering the conversation around to what might or might not be going on in Gordon's life. With any other problem, Gordon would have unburdened himself then and there, gratefully. But this one was something he could never share. The act of doing so would render all future one on one times with any of his brothers an awful, unthinkable impossibility.

Of them all it was John who became his unwitting helper. And that was only because Gordon Tracy was a) devious, b) sneaky, c) uncannily observant or d) all of the above.

Gordon had decided, after a week of doubt and fear that would have paralysed a less buoyant child, that he had to find out the truth. Easily done: DNA search. Not so easily done: DNA sample from his father, signature from both parties, and access to the v-cert unit with a passcode of both participants.

Since the demise of the postal service for anything other than parcels in 2031, v-cert units had taken the role of sending hard copy documents, still used for certification purposes in some forensic circumstances. A DNA certificate was one of them. All citizens had their unique passcode issued at birth, something to be guarded closely, and something which proved irresistible to Gordon Tracy. Over the years, through stealth and determination, he had gathered all but Alan's passcode – not for any nefarious reason as such, but simply because Gordon was the kind of child who collected forbidden information as some others might collect badges or butterflies. He knew each of his brothers' secret hiding places (Virgil's was incredibly lame), each of their secret crushes (for Virgil's, see above), how much each one saved over their summer jobs. If asked, he might say it was insurance against brotherly plots and retributions for his own devilment; but the truth was hidden far more successfully in Gordon's own heart. He collected these titbits in an unconscious effort to attach each of his brothers ever more tightly to him, with threads of secrecy that wound each into his soul. If he knew these things, if he kept them safe, he could never lose his brothers in the great yawning darkness of growing up and adulthood.

So he had his own and his father's passcode. A swab of his own inner cheek provided his DNA: a faked science experiment for school ("We're gonna check to see how many microorganisms grow in people's saliva, Dad. Don't you want to know how many grow in yours? Bet you've got the most of anybody's!") provided a sighing Jeff Tracy's. The packet containing the swabs in a sterilised container had gone off last week, and that afternoon a message had come through to state that the DNA work was ready for delivery upon receipt of authorisation. Answers were sitting there, waiting, and what he didn't have was his father's signature.

In a nod to simpler times, signatures were still required for the v-cert. A sample copy was input into the system, regularly updated as people aged, and Jeff Tracy's distinctive signature was a well-used one. The problem was that Gordon couldn't forge it to save his life. And the only one of his siblings who he knew for a fact could do so was the least predictable.

John.

Figuring out his own plan of attack for this campaign was what was occupying his mind tonight. A bribe? No, John didn't really care about money, unless he was saving for some new item of astronomical equipment – and Dad usually helped him out there, so the need wasn't pressing. Blackmail? Gordon wasn't above using it, but nothing he had on John would be enough to sway John if he set his face against it. John chose to die on some very particular hills. Indifferent to invasions of his privacy, curtailing of privileges, popular outrages, but incandescent at perceived cruelty of any kind, to any one or thing.

For almost anything else, with John it was best to offer a straight appeal. As the fourth youngest, Gordon studied each of his brothers' peculiarities with a diligence that came from powerlessness, and he played upon them with consummate skill when required. John despised prevarication or deviousness. Straight and open, and the answer would be yay or nay.

But this? There was nothing straightforward about this. An oblique approach was doomed to failure, and the only one he could take here.

He was so absorbed in his dilemma, folded up on the table, head down against his knees, that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late and the light was suddenly glaring at him.

"Gordon? Sweetheart, what are you doing down here."

Sweet frozen Jesus on an ice floe, it was Grandma.

Blinking, stupid with tiredness and surprise, Gordon watched as Grandma came over to the laundry unit and looked suspiciously at the flashing lights.

"What on earth are you doing laundry in the middle of the night for, Gordon Cooper Tracy?"

"I – I had –it was an accident, I swear, Grandma."

She peered closely at him.

"Look at you down here in the dark. You're shivering. What was it that couldn't wait until morning?"

And, horror of horrors, Gordon felt the dreaded blush begin to crawl up his cheeks.

"It really was an accident, Grandma. I swear. I just – I spilt something in bed."

"In your bed?" She looked from him to the unit again. "Are your sheets in there?" Then she turned back to notice that Gordon's calves were naked under his dressing gown, and her eyes widened in sudden understanding. "Oh, I see. And you thought you'd spare me the chore?" At Gordon's nod, she said, "Well, there's no point wasting the night. That washing's nearly done. Come on. We'll have a hot chocolate while it dries, eh?"

Still disoriented by the sudden shift from dark solitude to bright Grandma, Gordon followed her obediently into the kitchen, where she sat him at the table and busied herself preparing the drinks.

"Now, tell me young man. This isn't the first night this has happened, is it?" As Gordon opened his mouth to answer, she added, "And do not test my patience with any nonsense, Gordon."

When it came down to it, Gordon could prevaricate, obfuscate and deflect to brilliant effect, but he could not tell an outright lie without broadcasting it a mile away. It was, he considered, his one major character flaw.

Grandma nodded to herself. "That's what I thought. You've been looking very peaky these last few weeks. I never did know what peaky meant before, but I've decided I do now and you're it."

"I guess I'm flattered. I'm in the dictionary."

"You're in there under a lot of other words too, young man, some of them even less complimentary." Grandma's voice was sharp, but full of good humour. "So, the reason the unit needs auto-flush each morning is because I have a ninja washerman down here?"

"It needs what?"

"Exactly." Grandma picked up her drink and blew on it to cool it. "I knew something was up, and I figured it was you by a process of elimination – now, who would be silly enough to be doing laundry in the wee hours without remembering to flush through after the load? – and decided tonight I'd put a stop to it."

"Damn. You're good, Grandma."

"You better believe it. Now then." She out her drink down and looked at him seriously. "What's up?"

That blush was back, reddening his neck and upper chest as well, and Grandma nodded.

"I thought so. Well, it's a conversation you should have by rights with your father, but since he's in Osaka for another week, I daresay it's up to me. Right." She cleared her throat, then fixed him with a glare. "First of all, it's perfectly natural. Completely normal."

"It is?" It came out as a squeak. "Uh – what is?"

"There's no need to be embarrassed, Gordon. Boys of your age do this all the time."

"They do?" Gordon was astonished, and couldn't help but feel the first tendrils of relief in his heart. Natural. Normal. This could be dealt with. Grandma would know what to do.

"I've been through this with all your brothers – well, not Alan yet, of course. We worked out a system, and you and I can do the same."

"Wow. You mean, Scott…?"

"Yes, I mean Scott, and John, and Virgil. And your father, come to think of it, but I'm sure you don't want to. It will settle down in time, and in the meanwhile, we have a system."

And blinding illumination came to Gordon, riding on the coattails of unimaginable embarrassment.

"Don't say it, Grandma."

She snorted. "Alright, though I seem to recall you asking your father what fornication was in front of his guests last year when you knew very well what it was. All big eyed devilry, 'how do you do it, Dad?' If you can ask about that for the purposes of embarrassing your father, I daresay you can handle wet dreams."

"Oh, god, Grandma, you went there."

"Oh, alright, nocturnal emissions, how's that?"

Gordon had his head on the table, groaning.

"Not a whole lot better."

"Now," she said briskly, "for your brothers I just got them to strip the bed in the morning and put on fresh sheets themselves. You can do that, can't you?"

Gordon refused to look up, and his grandmother chuckled evilly.

"Good. I'm glad we got that settled. If I'd known earlier… but never mind. And don't worry, it will be our secret."

The words echoed in Gordon's chest. Our secret. The thought of actually sharing the burden that really shackled him was unbearably tempting.

And implacably impossible.

The disappointment was profound as Gordon finally nodded, and mumbled, "Thanks, Grandma."

"Right. Bed. And if it happens again, leave it to me. Not a word to your brothers, although they would understand, you know."

He nodded again, and dutifully set off for his bedroom, now weighted with the additional tasks of faking out his grandmother each morning and being even more careful with the nightly washing missions. As he did so he reflected; there was only one brother who needed to be understanding, and even he couldn't know what he was being understanding about.

He waited until late afternoon the next day, when Scott and Virgil were gone into town to play in the local football competition and he'd managed to deliberately piss off Alan to the point of his little brother retreating to their summer treehouse, despite the cold of a Kansas fall. Manipulating an eight year old to the point of tears. Gordon Tracy, hero.

He'd make it up to him. He'd make it up to all of them, for every rotten trick he'd ever pulled (even if they all had been brilliantly planned and crashingly funny). He was less than four hours from finding out if he was part of this family, beyond challenge, beyond question. His palms were sweating and he found himself swallowing when he didn't really need to. His right leg wouldn't stop jiggling.

John was where Gordon knew he'd be; in his room, at his desk, lost in a holo-projection of a distant galaxy that just looked like a swarm of fluoro bees to Gordon. He knocked on the door after he'd come in, and cleared his throat.

"Hey, John?"

"No."

Good start.

"Would you forge Dad's signature for me?"

"No."

"It wouldn't take you long, and it is important."

"No." John pulled back, blinking. "Wait, what?"

Gordon tried for his sunniest expression, but he knew he was failing. It felt like it did when he was swimming in the local pool and his arms cramped halfway down the length of it. He would try to keep his rhythm, hold onto his stroke, but his body just wouldn't do what he wanted it to.

He knew his eyes were giving him away.

John looked at him in silence for a long time. An excruciating time. Gordon didn't fidget, his right leg stilled under the scrutiny.

"You want me to forge Dad's signature." John hadn't raised his voice, so Gordon counted that as a positive. "You'd need that for the v-cert. You want some official document sent to you and you don't want anyone knowing, especially Dad."

Damn, John was scary.

"Yes." Gordon knew John didn't even really need that confirmation. "And I was kinda hoping you'd do it today."

"Now, when everyone else is gone." John nodded to himself. "What did you do to Alan to get rid of him?"

Gordon swallowed, but he didn't drop his gaze. "Was mean to him. He's in the treehouse."

"What are you going to do about that?"

"Fix it. Make it up to him." Gordon could see John wanted more, so added, "He can have all my im-ex movies. And I won't tease him for a week. A month."

John said nothing. Gordon waited. Finally, John nodded again.

"I don't like bullying. You better fix this." He pursed his lips, considering. "You've been off lately. Something's bothering you, but you haven't confided in anyone. Plus, you're wetting your bed." At Gordon's astounded look, he smiled slightly. "You're using that old scented talc to try and cover the scent of ammonia. Works for most people. Doesn't work with me."

"Wow. That's spooky."

"It's called intelligence. You might try it sometime." John frowned. "Does this have anything to do with all of that?"

Gordon clenched his jaw, but nodded.

"Hmm. Well, I must be inured to your brand of obnoxiousness or something, but I kinda miss you being Gordon. If I sign this, will it help?"

Honesty having worked this far, Gordon hesitated. "I hope so?" In the dawning hope of success with John, he had almost forgotten that there was a chance this would ruin things forever. His face fell. "I don't know. Maybe not."

"Is it illegal?"

"I don't think so." Couldn't be illegal to get your own DNA, right?

"And you're not using it to cheat in some way for some reason?"

That was clearer. "No."

John speared him with another look, then shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. I've been reading Kornhauser and Geijic on Deci and Ryan's theory of self-determination, and I think it's important that everyone meets their needs in their own way. If this will help, I'll do it."

Dimly, Gordon understood that for his brother, this was another kind of experiment, a trial of a way of living a life that met all of John's weird standards for himself.

"And no questions asked?"

John shrugged. "Just promise me I'm not doing anything that will hurt you, or Dad, or the family generally. Or anyone else, come to think of it."

Promise him? Gordon opened his mouth, and nothing came out. It was right there, so easy, so simple and he'd get his answers, but all that sang in his mind was _everybody's gonna get hurt. Everybody._

It was so horribly clear that he couldn't breathe for the truth of it.

"Hey, Gordo?" And John, the least likely to ever hug under normal circumstances up to and including birthdays, Christmas and unexpected sporting triumphs was suddenly stepping forward, frowning, his arms opening. "Gords?"

And Gordon, damned, stepped into it with a sudden sob.

John held tight as Gordon wrapped his arms around his waist and shook with the terror of it all. He said nothing, only held on as his little brother buried his face in his chest, breathing heavily. At last, he relaxed his arms a little and Gordon bought a clue, stepping back, overcome with emotion he had never wanted to share and never planned on showing.

"Pretty big deal, huh?" John said. "Okay. How's this. You promise me you'll come to me if this, whatever you're doing, gets you into some place you can't deal with or is going to hurt you. Deal?"

Gordon wiped his eyes on his sleeve and nodded. John gestured to the door.

"Come on then. Let's go be illegal."

They traipsed down to his father's office, unlit in the late afternoon gloom. The v-cert machine sat in standby mode, green light dulled. John glanced at Gordon, who looked back at him and nodded.

"You got the authorisation codes?"

Gordon pulled a creased piece of paper from his pocket and carefully punched in his code, his father's code, and the authorisation request code from the email. A moment, then the screen lit up with the swirling patterns upon which the signature would be written. The soft gelatinous mass would absorb and compare each stroke of the e-pen before affirming authenticity.

"You can do this?" Gordon's voice was almost a whisper. John grinned, showing his rarely seen mischievous streak.

"Since I was thirteen." He leant forward and confidently wrote his father's signature into the screen. A long pause, then the light flared green again and Gordon blew out his breath.

"You did it. You did it." Gordon grabbed John in a quick hug again, unsurprised when John just took it without reciprocating. John had already blown this year's hugging budget on Gordon upstairs.

"So this is what you're after?" John said, as the v-unit burst into action and a first sheet of paper began slowly appearing from its port. Gordon stared at it as if it were something venomous sliding into his life, but he nodded his head.

"Okay, well, enjoy." And with that his remarkable, brilliant brother left him to it. He paused at the doorway to say, "Remember, I'm here if you need my awesome again."

"Thanks, John." The papers were fully out now, sitting in the tray, bearing that faint chemical smell that always accompanied anything sent through the v-cert in this way. Gordon waited until his brother had begun tramping back to his eyrie, then pulled up the first one. His paper shook in his hand, and it took a moment before Gordon realised it was his hand shaking, not the paper itself.

'Dear Mr Tracy, further to your request of 04.12.49…'

His eyes scanned down the paper, nothing but garbled legalese, nothing that made sense. He dropped it, picked up the second one. This had graphs and bar charts with little dots on them. Meaningless numbers, gene identifiers, blood types, Rh factors, loci, alleles…

His eyes were swimming, and he dashed away tears. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Why couldn't they just write it and say, yes, those lying old women are lying old women and the very thought that Gordon Tracy does not belong in this family is so utterly and patently absurd that it is a very insult to this institution that you even sent these sample in the first –

'Combined Paternity Index is 0%. Probability of Paternity is 0%. Jefferson Tracy is excluded as the biological father of Gordon Tracy.'

The sentence sat there. Inert. Words, just words. It didn't scream at him, or get bigger, or explode off the page.

No relationship.

Excluded.

Gordon felt himself drop suddenly to the floor, as if his legs just gave way without warning. There were no thoughts in his head, no words but those of the paper.

No relationship.

Excluded.

He sat there for a long time. It only became apparent to him when he tried to get up and realised his left leg had gone to sleep, trapped beneath his bottom. He flexed it, and rubbed it, dazedly.

The tingle of returning blood brought him back to the world, suddenly alert.

It was only now that he had the proof that the obvious course of action came clear to him.

Denial. Cover up. Deflection.

The first thing he had to do was destroy these papers. Galvanised, he scrambled off the floor and ran to the door, peering around to make sure the fire was on and no one was in there. The coast was clear and without another thought he ran for the fireplace, tearing both papers to pieces as he did so. In a heartbeat they were in the fire, crisping with that peculiar lime green colour that v-cert papers developed as they burnt. They'd leave a trace of elements that showed they'd been destroyed in the fire, and plenty of criminals had been caught by the fact, but nobody in this household would know to look for that.

Right. The evidence was gone. What else?

Hmm. Gordon stopped, thinking. And the panic that had driven him from his father's office went away, just dissipated like morning mist. A strange, detached sort of calmness descended on him as his mind attacked the situation, step by step, just like his father taught him.

Questions would be asked if he kept acting like a little wuss. Questions had been asked. He hadn't been acting like himself, and people had noticed. Well, that was stopping right now.

They wanted him to be more like 'Gordon'? He could so do that. Hell, he'd out-Gordon himself. There would be no joke left untried, no prank left untested, no prat left unfallen.

And no more tiredness. He'd buy those old people nappies and wear them if he had to, to get a good night's sleep. In the day he'd just push through. He'd never skip swim training, never admit to tiredness in the pool. He'd push himself until he achieved so much that everyone would want to claim him. Mind over matter, that's what his d –

Gordon took a shuddering breath. His dad. Jeff Tracy was his dad. There was no question, not just for others, but for him. He would have to train himself to think that, always. A mantra repeated on falling to sleep, on waking each morning _. Jeff Tracy is my dad_.

The price of being a Tracy was eternal vigilance, and one he was prepared to pay. There would be no doubt, ever, no treacherous cracks in the wall he would present to his family.

Gordon Tracy, fourth son of Jeff and Lucy, was ready for the longest con he'd ever play.

That night, as they all sat around the table, John stopped on his way to his far seat and tapped Gordon's shoulder. Alan was babbling excitedly about all the movies Gordon had just given him, so John waited with his inimitable patience until Alan drew breath, before saying, "Everything okay now, Gordo?"

And Gordon grinned at him beatifically, not a care in the world.

"Thanks, John. Everything's just perfect."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Undertow

Virgil heard the car pulling up in the snow crunched yard. With a yell to Alan that Gordon had arrived, he hopped up on the old chair Grandma kept in the front hall so he could look through the transom at his little brother coming home for Christmas.

"He's still a shortie," he said to himself, preparing the first of many salvoes for the coming days. He watched, grinning, as Gordon swung up the steps with his duffel over his shoulder, hands full of Christmas presents in carrier bags, and half turned away so he could knock on the door with his snow covered foot.

"Ho bloody ho! Open up, Santa's freezing his sack off out here."

Virgil pulled the door open, and stood there, his smile as wide as his arms.

"Today is the only day you can get away with that joke," he said, stepping back in welcome. "And don't let Grandma catch you scuffing up the door like that." He let Gordon get halfway in, then wrapped him in a hug. "Merry Christmas, bro! Good to see you."

"Oof! Hey, Virge, It's good to see you, too. So who's home? How's Grandma? Dad here yet? Wow, how come your hair's so long? Dad seen that yet?"

"Whoa, yeah, still on high speed setting I see." He pulled back to take a good look at his little brother. Gordon looked good, in spite of the closely cropped hair; relaxed, happy to be there, another inch taller than he'd been when he last stepped across the threshold but still shorter than everyone save Alan. Virgil relieved him of the duffel, and gestured with his head towards the sitting room. "Come on through. Al's already got dibs on your old room, so you're in the green room out back."

"Yeah, I know what Alan's done to our room. Kid's space mad. Worse than John." Gordon dropped his keys on the hallstand and worked his shoulders, easing out the long journey's ache.

"Ah – have you seen John lately? The guy's in orbit 24/7. His head's in the stars even when he's on the john." The old joke shimmered there before them before they both decided they were too mature to go rehearsing those old lines.

"Nope. Haven't seen him since – when, March? He good? How's Scott? They're coming, right?"

Virgil laughed. "Scott's already here, he's in town with Grandma, stocking up. And Dad's here, he's on the phone to Vancouver but he's here. And uh – I think Al's out the back, he was getting more firewood last I – "

"Gordo!" Alan appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, arms laden with logs that he promptly dumped on the hearth before running over to leap at his brother. "Woohoo! Look at you, all military and shit."

Dropping the bags and hugging him, Gordon laughed. "Yep, that's it, only WASP is military, air-force is shit. Apart from that, you've got it in one." He pushed Alan back and held his arms out, showing off the WASP uniform that was still new enough to be exciting. "Cool, huh?"

Alan admired it, craning his head to look around Gordon's back, lips pursed, nodding.

"Wow. Impressive. What's the word? You look so… so… constipated."

Alan ducked the automatic swipe Gordon sent at him and danced away, grinning. "I can't believe you're finally here. I can't believe it's almost Christmas. Most of all, I can't believe they actually took you on. What are they, desperate?"

Gordon cupped one hand behind his ear, feigning listening. "Oh, what's that you say? This Tracy guy won a gold medal at the Jakarta Olympics? World record butterflier at 200 meters? And he's got a GPA of 3.0, and he's studying marine agriculture, and he's a handsome devil in a compact package just perfect for submarine work? Well, for god's sake, get him in here."

Virgil made a gagging noise. "No, no, please, keep going. I always like to regurgitate my lunch at least once a week."

"Do they make you wear that cap or did you lose a bet?" Alan's eyes were sparkling for pure joy, and Virgil knew his own were probably the same.

"Lost a bet. We usually wear nothing but our scuba gear and a hunting knife."

"Yep. Naked Gordon." Virgil shuddered. "That'd scare the hell outta me."

"Aw, Virgin, don't be frightened of big boy's balls. One day yours will drop, too."

The three brothers paused, infinitely pleased with themselves. The level of insults had risen to a comfortable standard that spoke more of home than a thousand backslaps or handshakes ever could.

"So what'd you bring me?" Alan had his brat mode set to full-on, and Virgil could see that Gordon, as a connoisseur of the art, approved.

"Six used condoms and a dead jellyfish."

"Coo-ool." Alan threw himself onto the settee as only a teenager could, limbs sprawled, head hanging off the back. "I bet I'll have to fight Grandma for them."

"Ew, gross."

Gordon and Alan crowed in victory, as Virgil raised his hands.

"Okay, yes, I broke first. God, it's been so long since I've had conversation of this quality. I've grown too used to intelligence and taste." He sighed. "I guess there's a lesson in that for us all."

"Speaking of intelligence and taste, and knowing how much I try to avoid both – you didn't say if John was coming?" Picking up the bags he'd dropped to absorb Alan's assault, Gordon stepped across the room to deposit them by the Christmas tree, already decorated and glowing with colour in the late afternoon gloom of a Kansas winter's day.

"Tomorrow morning. He's got a lift with a friend of his as far as Pittwater, and then Kyle McKenzie's dropping him off here after his round."

Gordon nodded. "So when will Scotty and Grandma get back?" Alan shrugged, then flung himself backwards even more dramatically.

"Soon, I guess. So what'd you bring me?"

"Virge, you streaming the new Miku series?"

"C'mon, Gordy, tell me. You know you want to." Alan rolled onto his stomach and lowered his voice to a husky purr, his eyelashes fluttering. "You know you want to."

Gordon couldn't help it. He cracked up, and Virgil felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the fire. Life had taken the Tracy boys to many far flung places – John to MIT, Scott to the air force, Gordon to WASP and Virgil himself to Denver to study engineering. But wherever they were the ties still held, and the call to come together at Christmas still resonated and was answered, by each of them, when and how they could.

Virgil knew he was a sap. His brothers told him often enough, and he was big enough to admit to more than his fair share of sentimentality. He was the one who planned birthday surprises – Gordon only ever remembered Alan's, Grandma's, Dad's and his own, John regularly delegated ("If you've got something, can I pay half?"), Scott always remembered and never had a clue as to what to get. It was Virgil who organised and arranged and reminded, and the only reason he ever gave even himself was that someone had to do it. But the truth was beginning to dawn on him, as he spent time away from this old Kansas farm and the people it once held tightly in its embrace. For Virgil, home meant happiness. Some part of him was always incomplete when everyone wasn't at their place around the table, when they weren't kidding around and bringing havoc to the notion of fine dining. He was a sap, and on one level it worried him. At some point he was going to have to find his own happiness, away from his brothers and his dad, Grandma. They'd all begun their own careers, with the exception of Alan, just in his senior year of high school. It just made sense that they were all going to start their own families. It bothered him that the thought of gathering less and less frequently – of holidays bringing only 'Wish you were here' cards as the large old kitchen table grew more and more redundant in its size and favourite dishes were forgotten, favourite places surrendered to dust – gave him so much grief.

Well, not today. Not this Christmas. This Christmas they would all be home, and he would revel in every crazy, noisy, silly moment of it.

Now he watched as Gordon doubled over, laughing. He knew his little brother so well. He knew that this was what Gordon missed when he was gone, when swimming training and then field training for WASP stole his time. Just this, the ability to be a clown amongst clowns with nothing at stake and no one to keep score.

Gordon slowed his laughter then straightened up in faux military style, complete with a British accent from some long-forgotten movie.

"Dear god. You know what? You need a demned good thrashing, young scoundrel, a demned good thrashing. Now, where's my good old thrashing stick when I need it?"

"Here, colonel," said Virgil, tossing him an umbrella from behind the armchair. Alan gave a shriek and tried to scramble up from the sofa, but Gordon leapt over the back of it to land in a tangle on Alan, pinning him in a helpless, giggling mass. Virgil took one look and cried "Bazunga!" as he launched himself, ass first, on top of them both. The angle was too much. With more shrieks from all concerned they tumbled onto the floor, Gordon waving the umbrella about, Alan breathless with laughter, and Virgil laughing helplessly on top of all.

Determinedly, Gordon fought his way out until his chest was free. He twisted to look accusingly at Virgil.

"'Bazunga"? What the hell, dude?"

Virgil spread out his hands, wheezing for breath. "Bazunga. That's a thing, isn't it?"

"No, it is not. It is not a thing. It will never be a thing. There is no thingness with bazunga."

Alan shoved purposefully from below, and Gordon tipped off onto the floor.

"I like it. I'm gonna use it from now on. Bazunga will live, Virge."

"Ohh, what do I have here?" Virgil reached into the tangle of limbs and picked up something small and shiny from the floor. He lifted it up and peered at it. "Why, Lieutenant Tracy, ah do declare! Is this a proposal?"

"What?" Gordon saw what Virgil had and belatedly clutched at his neck, then laughed. "Give them back, asshole. Those I can _not_ lose."

"Hmmm. It says here you are Gordon Cooper Tracy, no religion – whatever will the reverend say, young man? And – " Virgil stopped, his eyes focusing on the information imprinted into Gordon's holographic dog-tags. "Whoa. Gordon. They've made a mistake on here."

"Give me those." All laughter dropped from Gordon's voice as he struggled to get upright. "Give them to me, Virgil."

"Sure." Virgil swung them over to where Gordon could snatch them. "But you better get that fixed, Gordon. That's really not good."

"What was on it? Did it say Gordo was an alien? I'd like that."

"No, but Scott's gonna have a field day when he finds out WASP have made a mistake." Virgil rolled onto his knees, then sat back. "They put the wrong blood type on there. Didn't you notice this? We're all O positives, like Mum and Dad. They've got you down as AB."

"It's fine," Gordon said shortly, all levity gone. He shoved the tags into his top pocket. In the hallway, the door to their father's office opened, and Jeff Tracy came out into the living room, his face lighting up when he saw Gordon.

"Yes, that's right, I'll have the specs sent over in the morning. Well, it's not Christmas in China, they'll be working." One finger was raised in the well-known signal that Jeff was still talking into the tiny phone jack in his ear. "Good to hear. What's that? Oh, er, yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Out." His eyes flicked up, and his grin widened. "Gordon! Come and give your old man a hug."

Gordon freed himself from Alan's last minute grab and came over to his father. They reached into a hug, and Jeff patted him hard on the back.

"Well, it doesn't feel like you've lost much muscle since they started sending you down into those subs, son."

"They keep us too busy. How are you, Dad?"

"Oh, you know. Good enough for an old astronaut."

"Uh-huh. So what's your time in the marathon this year?"

Jeff grinned, obviously pleased. ""Thirty one minutes 15 seconds."

Gordon whistled. "Not too shabby."

Virgil rolled his eyes at Alan. He knew that Gordon was the one who most closely worked with his father when it came to fitness. Scott would race against him, but Gordon would run with him. Gordon would do his father's workout alongside him, readily conceding defeat when it looked like Jeff was about to throw in the towel. They'd spend hours some days, tackling the obstacle courses they devised at night by the fire, daring each other to crazier efforts. Of course, there was another way of looking at it. It could be said by those of a less generous bent that Gordon was the son most ready to flatter the old man's ego when he needed it. But Virgil found no fault with it. It did them both good, so where was the harm?

"It's good to see you, son." Jeff clapped him on the shoulder and stepped away, noticing the fire. "Alan, have you got enough logs in for tonight?"

"Think so, Dad."

Jeff looked at the wood stack on the hearth and frowned.

"Are you sure?"

Alan, Virgil could tell, was obviously anxious not to go back outside, and he didn't blame him. The snow last night had been covered with this morning's frost, and the air was absolutely frigid. Alan's face was still pink from his last excursion. He'd lay money that Alan was about to attempt a top level diversion.

"Hey Dad, guess what?"

Jeff moved over to the drinks cabinet, gesturing to Virgil and Gordon in invitation. Virgil nodded, Gordon shook his head. "What will you have, Virgil?"

"Bourbon, sir, if that's okay."

"Of course. Christmas after all." He poured it and passed it to his middle son.

"Daaad."

"Hmm? Oh, right. Well, Alan, I don't know. What have I failed to guess?""

"Scotty's gonna freak."

Jeff poured himself a bourbon then picked it up, sighing.

"Fire away, son. Astonish me."

But Virgil was surprised as Gordon said, sharply, "No. Forget it."

Both Jeff and Alan turned to Gordon, frowning. Virgil watched as Gordon obviously realised his abruptness was a mistake and tried to recover by fixing a grin on his face, shrugging.

"It's nothing. You don't need to bother him with that, Al."

 _Just why are you hiding this_? Virgil wondered. Whatever it was, it had Gordon well and truly spooked. In the space of thirty seconds they had gone from clowning about to Gordon looking as though he was going to be sick.

"Go ahead," Jeff said, gesturing with his drink. "Bother me."

"Don't!" And Gordon, so often the instigator in mischief, looked desperate in his attempt to avert it. "Just forget it, Allie. Please."

It was the wrong play. Virgil knew it, instinctively. He knew, even before he saw it, how his father's jaw would jut forward, how Alan's brow would lower. The two most stubborn Tracys were in accord, and Gordon usually knew so much better. He was out of practice, off his game, and the family patriarch and his youngest son would make him pay.

Jeff raised an ironic eyebrow towards Gordon, and then said, "Well, Alan, this sounds good. What is it that I will never guess?"

"Please, Dad, no. It's stupid." Gordon forced a laugh, and Virgil was almost embarrassed for him. "It's nothing. They made a mistake on my dog tags, that's all."

"They did?" Frowning, Jeff motioned towards Gordon, asking to see. Gordon turned away.

"Yeah, minor glitch. I'm getting it fixed first thing."

"Did they spell your name wrong? What?" Jeff persisted, a faint, polite, and completely shark like smile on his face. Virgil knew all too well how much his father hated to be kept in the dark about anything.

He glanced at Gordon, and was immediately shocked. If anything, Gordon looked worse than before, his face completely white.

"Dad, it really is nothing. A little snafu."

Jeff shook his head. "There's no such thing," he growled. "Little mistakes can have big consequences."

"I'll say, "Alan said, quickly. "They got his blood type wrong."

For no good reason, Virgil caught his breath. Perhaps it was the way that Gordon gave a short, sharp gasp, or the way his father went completely still. Utterly, utterly still. After a heartbeat, two, Virgil spoke up, suddenly desperate to fill what he realised was a dangerous void in the conversation.

"It doesn't matter. He'll get it seen to. First thing. So hey, anyone want some Christmas cake?"

As a diversion it was inept, and treated with the contempt it deserved. Even Alan had stopped swinging his legs on the sofa, bemused.

"The – " his father cleared his throat, tried again. "The blood type?"

"Dad, it's nothing." Gordon's voice was so low Virgil could barely hear it. "Don't worry about it."

"The blood type." Jeff's jaw worked, his whole body rigid as he stood there beneath the Christmas decorations, catching red and blue, yellow and white in his hair, his frozen face.

"Yeah, Virgil noticed it." Alan's voice was subdued, belatedly aware that something was wrong here.

"Virgil?"

He closed his eyes. He didn't know what was at stake in this moment, one so cosily redolent with cinnamon and pine cones and the smell of burnt sugar from the kitchen. But something was clearly and badly wrong. With nothing to guide him except gut instinct, he went with the one who was most glaringly in need.

 _Gordon's in trouble. I don't know why, or how, but he needs me badly right now._

"I was pulling your leg, kiddo." And Christ, was that his voice? Croaking and high pitched and so obviously false? Be damned if he ever called himself a big brother ever again, because he was doing a horrible job here and for some stupid, awful, deadly reason, it mattered.

Jeff Tracy raised his hand, towards Gordon.

"Show me."

At that, Gordon's face broke. He shook his head. And Virgil had to look again, because the light was catching on something there, and for a moment he couldn't quite believe it. Tears - there were tears in his eyes. Tears! Gordon was crying, here, in the living room, and Virgil couldn't remember the last time he'd seen tears on Gordon's face.

"No, Dad. Don't."

Jeff swayed a little, a giant oak in a sudden storm, and grabbed for the back of the armchair.

"Oh, my god."

"Dad?" Alan sounded scared, as well he might be. His father's face bore an expression Virgil had never seen before- something overwhelmed, and broken.

Haunted.

"Gordon?" His hand released the glass and it tumbled to the wooden floor, rolled in a semi-circle, spilling a blessing of bourbon in an arc. His eyes never left Gordon's. "My god."

Gordon was rigid, his eyes huge and full of tears, his mouth in a grim line. Jeff stared at him as if he'd never seen him before.

"What- "

"I don't get it," Alan said, a little breathlessly, spooked by the tableau in front of him. "What's wrong with a little mistake?"

And it was Alan's simple question that brought everything together for Virgil. In one terrible instant, he understood. It wasn't the dog tag, the blood type per se; it was the way his brother and his father were standing there, frozen in some dreadful moment of discovery that neither one wanted that told him the truth. It shocked him so much he cried out.

"No! No this is – bullshit. What is - stop it. Both of you, stop it. This is a mistake."

"No." His dad sounded hoarse but sure. "No. This..."

"What?" Alan's voice quavered. "What's happening?"

The front door banged open, and a gust of happy chatter preceded a blast of cold air into the room.

"Hellooo. Anyone home? Gordon here yet?"

Scott. _Dear god, no, bad timing, the worst_. Virgil found himself moving into the hall, holding his hands up to stop his big brother where he stood.

"Hey, Scott, Scott, listen – "

"Virge, hey, get out of the way, we're freezing and we've got six bags of groceries to unpack. You could get the other two from the – hey, Gordo! You've made it!"

Scott breezed past, arms laden, with Grandma similarly occupied behind him.

"Virgil, dear, could you get – "

"What's going on?"

 _Shit, Scott, no_. The man was always quick to sum up a situation, but this one hadn't even resolved itself into what it had to be, yet.

"Scott, wait." Futile. _Great, Virgil. Stellar performance so far._

He hurried into the living room to see Dad holding onto the armchair, gray faced, and Gordon standing with his arms wrapped around his middle, looking ill, tear streaked. The whiskey glass had come to a stop facing the hallway, and the last drop of liquid dripped slowly onto the floor as Virgil caught sight of it.

"What the hell's going on?" Scott demanded. Virgil wondered briefly if he could hear the fear in his voice, too.

"I don't know," Alan said. He had stood up and was backed against the far wall, by the tree. Virgil ached for the smallness of his voice, the way he was looking from his brother to his father as if to divine meaning from their faces. "Gordon…"

"What?" Scott strode over to his younger brother, grasped him by the arms. "Gordon, what did you do?"

Gordon raised stricken eyes to him, and shook his head, a negation and a plea.

"I'm sorry," he said, barely a whisper.

"You're sorry? For what?" Virgil could see how badly Scott wanted to take charge of this moment, but he was clearly frustrated by the lack of information and the fact that neither Gordon nor Jeff was capable of telling him. With growing anger he turned to Virgil.

"You mind telling me what's going on?"

"Scott, calm down." Raising his hands in appeasement, Virgil deliberately brought his voice down and, at last, found firmness. "Everyone just needs to stop and take a deep breath. Something's happened, and we need, everybody needs, to just stop and just think for a moment."

"Alright. Okay." Scott did as instructed, taking a large breath, in and slowly out, and then looked around him. "Alright. Alright. Alan, help Grandma with the groceries. Dad, you look like you could sit for a minute. Virgil, grab him some water."

It felt so good to have someone take charge that for precious seconds Virgil could push aside the trauma at the heart of it all just to obey that firm command.

In some cowardly way he'd been waiting for the silt of the moment to settle, but as he hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a glass, brought it to the tap, the sediment cleared almost against his will and the facts of the matter were clear.

Gordon's blood type was incompatible with him being the offspring of Jeff and Lucy Tracy. Unless his parents had played some elaborate trick on them all, Lucy had given birth to Gordon. He remembered visiting the hospital, hours after the event. Therefore, Gordon's father was someone other than Jeff.

Therefore Virgil's mother had become pregnant to another man other than their father.

Therefore Gordon was his half-brother.

Gordon's reaction suggested – no, Virgil, clarity now – _demonstrated_ that he knew this well before tonight. Dad's reaction demonstrated that he didn't.

So. There it was. Nothing else to say - except everything.

He finished filling the glass and brought it back to his father who had taken a seat in the old armchair by the fire. When Virgil handed the glass to him, his father's hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold it. He took a sip, then nodded his instruction to take it away again.

Jeff looked at the boy in military uniform, standing in front of him. He grimaced at the tears. Virgil wondered if he was embarrassed or angry, or perhaps working to stop his own.

"How long have you known?"

Gordon shook his head. Virgil felt Scott's frustration simmering as he stood beside him. Scott needed input so he could repair the rent that had suddenly appeared in his family, and anyone denying him that was in his crosshairs.

"Come on, Gordon, just tell us. What is going on?"

 _Wrong question, wrong person_. Couldn't Scott see that every atom of Gordon's being was straining towards burying this conversation right now? And Virgil knew - dammit, he knew them both so well, he knew Scott would see mulishness rather than desperation, deliberate obstruction rather than fear. Somehow Scott had always struggled to see past the sideshows that Gordon was forever fronting, and right now that inability to see the boy behind them all meant he was not reading what was plain to Virgil's eyes.

Gordon shook his head again.

"It's just a stupid mistake," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was being strained through razor wire. "Dad? Dad, please."

Virgil held his breath, turning to his father. What he saw there made his stomach sink.

The man seated before him had had his one moment of human weakness. Even as he watched, Virgil saw him gather himself up, sit straighter, lift his chin up, harden his eyes. It was Jefferson Tracy who commanded the room, and that momentary loss of control was gone in favour of an iron grip on himself and everyone in his charge.

"Mother, would you please take Alan and Virgil upstairs." It wasn't a request, however it was framed. "Gordon and I are going to have a discussion, and I want Scott here as well."

For once, he had stirred a rebellion.

"No!" Alan sounded scared, and Virgil didn't blame him. "Please, Dad."

"I am not going anywhere, Jefferson." Grandma stood with her hands on her hips, scowling. "I do not know what has happened to this family in the two hours since I left, but I will not be leaving here until I do."

Jeff stood up.

"Mother, this is not negotiable. This is a private conversation that I need to have with my – " Clearing his throat, Jeff finished, "With Gordon."

 _Oh god, Dad, you didn't_.

Gordon gave a horrible, high pitched little laugh. It hurt to hear it.

"No, you know what, I think we can save ourselves the bother."

"Cut that out! How long have you known?"

"God, don't even – what difference does it make?"

Jeff's mouth twisted, fury in his eyes.

"Do not take that tone with me, young man. While you are in this house you will have some respect."

"Fine, yeah, good call." Gordon grabbed his duffel, still by the door. "Easy fixed."

"Don't you dare walk out!"

"Wow, three clichés in a row, you're killing it, Dad." The duffel swung across his shoulders, Gordon turned to go.

"Just hold it right there, Gordon!" Scott moved to stand in his path. "You're not leaving. This is not the time for your dramatics. We are going to sit down and talk this out, calmly." He paused, then added, with an attempt at wry defusal, "And if someone, at some point, would care to fill me in with what is actually going on, I'd really appreciate it."

"Really? You really want to know? Fine." Gordon dropped the duffel heavily. His jaw trembled, but his head was up. "Fine. I'll go ahead and say it, shall I?"

As an opening gesture it was highly effective, but that insight that never let him settle for safe certainties told Virgil a different truth. Gordon had buried this secret so deeply in his soul it had become part of his very bones. He was never going to willingly let it go. His brother's mouth worked, but nothing came out, and suddenly the brief sputter of anger was gone.

It left something terrible in its wake.

Virgil had seen heartbreak before, and it was carving up his brother as they all watched. The Tracy family was standing by, uselessly, as one of their own was gutted in front of them. Useless with pride and humiliation, in his father's case; with ignorance for the rest.

Jeff fixed Gordon with his glare, daring him to speak, his lip curling slightly. After a moment he snorted.

"Mother, take Alan and –"

"I will not be ordered about in my own home!" Grandma Tracy rarely raised her voice, but when she did, all other voices stopped. "Jeff, you're scaring your own sons, and I can't think of one possible reason, good, bad or indifferent, for you to do that."

Virgil watched as his father opened his mouth to reply and then stopped. He drew in a long breath and then lifted his chest up, visibly reining his anger in without letting go of it for a second.

"You're – you're right, of course." He looked at Alan, and then across to Virgil. "I'm sorry, boys. But this doesn't concern you. I'd appreciate some time with Gordon."

"You're wrong. It does concern us, Dad," Virgil said, with as much force as he could. He was throwing the best lifeline he had to his brother, his father be damned. "This concerns all of us. We need to discuss this as _a family_ , together."

"Virgil, you will do as I ask. Now!"

"Listen to your son, Jefferson," Grandma said. "This is not time for your military nonsense."

"Mother!" Jeff's voice rose, a bellow of pain and frustration. "For god's sake, I have just lost a son!"

Everyone froze. It was almost comic to see Alan's mouth gaping, Grandma's hand at her mouth like an old screen actress conveying horror.

And from Gordon a silence so cold it howled.

Virgil heard Scott hitch a horrified breath beside him, but he couldn't spare him a glance. All he had eyes for was Gordon, who looked as though he'd been physically slapped and was caught forever in that moment of pain.

"Gordy –"

But he couldn't hear, Virgil knew. Gordon was staring at their father, nodding almost unconsciously. And Virgil knew before it happened what he'd do next. Without another word or look to anyone, Gordon turned on his heel and left.

The clatter of keys from the hall, the wrench of the door, and their brother was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Not wanted on voyage

It wasn't often that Scott felt totally helpless. All through his life, as the eldest Tracy boy and then a leader at school and in the airforce, he was used to gathering information, assessing the situation and making a decision, then acting on it. Even when they lost Mom he'd been able to see his path clearly. It was Scott who gathered the younger ones, who comforted them as he gave John and Virgil jobs to do, as he shielded his father from those first few days of intrusive phone calls. It was not a burden but a calling, and one that defined him. This moment of chaos, in a place that should be a sanctuary for them all, had him bewildered, and it was a sensation he hated with every fibre of his being. He needed information, he needed clarity, and he needed action.

Because losing a brother was not an option.

"Is John alright?"

"John?" That threw Virgil, then he clearly replayed the last minute of conversation. "Yeah, yes, I guess. John's fine. It isn't – " he drew in a breath. "It isn't John."

"Fine. It's Gordon. I'll ask again," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Alan, go upstairs," his father ordered. Alan rolled his eyes.

"Oh my god, Dad, relax. I figured it out already. O plus O plus AB means that Gordon's got a different dad."

If the baldness of the statement set his father back on his heels, it was nothing to the effect on Scott.

"We did basic genetics at school about a year ago," Alan continued. "It's all about-"

"Yeah, maybe not now, Al." Virgil was looking at Scott, worriedly. "Scotty? It's a bit of a shock, I know. Just take your time with it."

For Scott, his four brothers had always seemed like the four pillars of his world. They were his north, south, east and west. John, with his calm intelligence; Virgil with his empathy and insight; Gordon's good-nature and light-heartedness; Alan's enthusiasm and curiosity. The loss of any one of them would rock the ground beneath his feet, leaving him lurching, flailing.

Alan's summation of the situation was shocking in its implications, and Scott grasped them almost at once. There had been lies and secrets, big ones, and people he loved and admired – his dad, his mom, and his brother – were at the centre of them. But nothing he'd heard yet explained why their brother was alone in the cold and dark, facing this without his family around him.

This fact was a problem that Scott could fix.

"Alan, go and grab our coats, and gloves for everyone too. We're going to bring our brother home."

"That is not your decision to make." Jeff looked to have aged a decade in the last ten minutes, but his voice was firm. "Scott, son, I need some time."

"What's there to think about?" Virgil said, fists clenching by his side. "I mean, I get it, Dad. It's a shock to you that Mom had someone else's baby. But that all happened a long time ago, and she's gone. And none of it is Gordon's fault."

"Of course – of course it isn't. Good lord, do you think I blame him?"

"If it looks like a duck…" Alan said.

"I think," Virgil said quickly, "you're looking for someone to blame, and Gordon is the nearest target."

"Well, if you're looking for someone to blame, Jeff, you might start a little closer to home," said Grandma wearily, taking a seat on the sofa.

His father glared at her.

"How is this any of my fault?"

Grandma returned the glare, much to Scott's astonishment.

"I know I raised you to think for yourself, boy. I hope I also raised you not to be a hypocrite."

"I don't understand you, Mother. You're not making any sense." Jeff scrubbed his face, wearily. "I daresay it's just one of many things that are not making sense tonight."

"Why don't you just think for a minute. It'll come to you."

"What do you want me to say? Lucy, she lied to me, all those years ago. How do you expect me to just accept that?"

"How about," Grandma began, leaning forward, eyes glinting, "you remember exactly what was happening about 18 years ago?"

Jeff shook his head, but Scott had modelled himself on his father from the moment he was old enough to say his name. That took dedicated study, attention to detail, constant reification. And that meant he could see what his father, the indomitable, inscrutable Jeff Tracy, was doing.

His old man was bluffing.

"Very well, then. And no, your boys are going to hear this, because they're old enough to accept the fact their parents aren't perfect. Neither one of them."

"I don't see how I could possibly be held to –"

"Well stick with me, kiddo, I'm about to rock your world." Grandma looked at her son meaningfully, then each of her grandsons in turn. "Now, I'm giving you the shortened version, because Scott is absolutely right and you are going to go out there soon to bring your brother back. But you need to hear this, and that boy has sense enough to keep himself safe until you get him."

"He didn't take his coat," Alan said doubtfully.

"Alright. He's got no sense at all and you will need to hurry." Grandma sighed. "Boys, your mother was a lovely woman, and I loved and respected her. When you're old enough to have a partner of your own, you'll know that parent-in-law approval isn't as common as you'd hope. What was I going to think of the woman who took my place in my boy's heart?"

"She was good to you," Jeff said gruffly. Accusingly, as if what his mother was doing was disloyal to his wife. Scott struggled to read the currents of this conversation.

Grandma nodded. "She was. You don't know this, boys, but Lucy came out to stay at the farm when she was pregnant with Scott, and she only ever intended to stay for long enough to get settled into a routine with the baby. But then, your father was building Tracy Industries and off to training and the moon and goodness knows what. He came home often enough to get her pregnant again, then he was down in Florida or up in Washington, or California, being the wonderful man she'd married and leaving her as near as anything to a single mother's life. Three young boys under the age of six, and there she was, stuck on a farm in the middle of Kansas, no friends, no career, no family but a grumpy menopausal woman having marriage problems of her own with a grumpy old grouch who couldn't handle getting older and thought the way to keep ageing at bay was to work so hard on the farm he nearly worked himself to exhaustion."

"You – you never mentioned any of this," Jeff said, obviously surprised.

"Oh, for goodness sake. You couldn't figure out your own marriage, Jefferson, let alone your parents'. And when would you have been around to hear it, anyway? Lucy and I both decided we'd keep out problems to ourselves. And then Grant was so exhausted that night he drove us off the road and he ended up with a leg in a cast, I had a broken pelvis that kept me in bed till I got pneumonia. Do you remember that?"

"Of course I do. I was so grateful that Lucy was there to help."

"Yes, she was there to help. Dear god, Jeff, do you ever hear yourself?" At Jeff's blank look, she picked up a cushion and threw it at him. "What part of three children under six do you not get? Well, of course you don't get it, you weren't there."

"Forgive me," said Jeff, with asperity. "I was working every hour of every day building a business that would guarantee my children their future. I daresay I had different priorities, but I only ever did what I thought was best for my family."

"Including Alison Reynolds?"

Scott had a brilliant flash of memory to a moment during his flight training, when he flew the old Piper-Hornet up into a tight loop and stalled the engine at the peak. He remembered frantically hitting the ignition again and again and glancing across at his instructor. The look on his instructor's face was something like the one on his father's face right now.

"Wh – " Jeff cleared his throat. "What?"

"Ah! Don't you dare." Grandma raised her finger, and Jeff's mouth abruptly closed. "Yes, I knew, son. So did Lucy. That opening ceremony for the new plant in Seattle? We both took one look at her and you and we knew. We know what it means when a woman reaches over and adjusts a man's collar, without asking, when she puts her hand on his wrist to get his attention. When he can't take his eyes off her. We both knew what it meant when you always had meetings and travel and could only make it home one day in thirty."

"Dad!" Alan's eyes were huge.

Scott risked a look at Virgil. What he saw there made him subtly interpose his body between his brothers and his father.

But Jeff Tracy was always able to take a blow and find his footing again before his opponent had time to blink.

"So she had an affair out of revenge? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Revenge? That woman adored you. Jeff. Sweetheart," and Grandma's voice gentled a little, "she was the only person on that farm keeping everything together when she thought the one person she could always rely on had let her down so badly she could barely function. She didn't seduce anyone, and she wasn't seduced by charm and looks – though goodness knows, he had plenty of both. If I'd been fifteen years younger -"

"Grandma!" Alan wailed.

"What then," said Jeff, almost sullen. It was a new look on him, and Scott was startled to realise he could see the boy he'd once been in his father's face.

"I think it was kindness. Just that. Simple kindness." Grandma smiled faintly. "He was hired along with another man to work the farm while Grant was laid up, and while the rest of us were asking her to do this, do that, cook and wash and comfort and forget about her own hurts, he came along and really saw her."

"What do you mean, Grandma?" Virgil's voice was careful, as if he was holding on tightly to all his emotions while the court heard the evidence before it.

"He talked to her. Adult to adult, no strings, just a friendly ear and face when she was crying out for someone to see her as a human being, not a maid of all work. And he saw that she needed help. She was drowning on dry land, that girl was, and he threw her a lifeline simply because he was a kind man who asked nothing of her."

The pain in his father's face was no longer childish. It was the pain of a man hearing how he failed the ones he loved the most, and knowing there was nothing he could do to heal it. All too long ago, too lost in the haze of work and risk and grateful acceptance that somehow, his wife would always come through for him, would always do what needed to be done to keep the family ticking along in his absence, no matter what it cost her.

"He started coming out on the weekend and taking you boys off her hands. First afternoon he did, she said she'd paint, and I found her there, sound asleep, face on the palette and covered in oils. So damned tired she couldn't get past the opening of her paintbox. He used to take you out to the river, showed you how to fish. Do you remember, Scott?"

Another lurch of memory, and the shock of recognition brought a little gasp. "He built the fort." He turned to Virgil. "You were too little, Virge, but this guy, he came out and built a fort out of old tires and timber from the barn. We loved it, used to play in there for hours. I made it a spaceship. John wanted it to be a cave."

They looked at each, then said in unison, "Weird."

A small man, with yellow hair and a ridiculous grin. The memories started to flicker faster in his mind, there but just out of focus, a blurred reckoning of days almost forgotten. A scar on his hand that he said came from adventures on a fishing trawler. A man who couldn't read, even though Scott could, and he was only six; but who could tie fishing flies that brought the fish to the surface of the river when he flicked his line and sent one skimming across the water. A man with a gentle voice, and a big laugh, who took him aside one day and told him that his ma needed his help, and could he step up to be the man around the place? Look out for her, look out for his brothers, because his ma was a small thing and needed Scott's big strong arms to help carry the load.

"And yes, Jeff, he looked at her like she hung the moon, and maybe, for a moment, she needed to feel that she was a desirable woman still. I'm not saying she was right, son." Grandma sighed. "I am saying she was human."

Jeff sat in silence.

"And he did have a wonderful butt."

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Not the time, Grandma. So, Dad. What happened? How did you get past this, the pair of you?" He gestured towards Alan. "I mean, clearly you got past it."

"Yes." Jeff said heavily. "We got past it. I guess – I guess I put that time behind me because we got past it so well. Your mother called me, and gave me an ultimatum. If I wanted to save our marriage, I had to get home by midnight that night." He gave a tired chuckle. "I was in Orlando. She rang at 5pm and I made it home with twenty minutes to spare."

"Sounds like you really hustled, huh." That was Virgil, with the first glimmer of approval in his voice for half an hour. Jeff shook his head, but not in denial.

"I had no idea things had gotten that bad."

"You mean, you didn't know that she knew about you and that other person," said Alan. Scott found his expression hard to read, and that alone was unusual in this bizarre night. Of all his brothers, it was Alan who was the most transparent, the one whose wholeheartedness and energy made the most sense to Scott. It was as though the entire Tracy family had been rattled about in a tumbler then tossed in the air to fall into new and crazy patterns.

"I guess not."

"How could you, Dad?" The words almost choked in his throat as he said them, but Scott forced himself to give them air. This was the man he had built his life around; his model, his hero, his dad. Something cold and hard was growing inside him as this conversation continued, and he couldn't bear it. _Don't let me down now, Dad_ , he thought, _because you never have before. I can't recognise much about any of this, and I need to recognise you if I'm going to put our pieces back the way they should be._

"I – well, I guess your grandmother has given you the story from Lucy's point of view."

"You're welcome," said Grandma.

"I can only tell you how it was for me. It's fair to say I was driven. I thought I had a window of opportunity – as an astronaut, as a businessman. I daresay – I daresay it's true that I didn't recognise I also only had a window of opportunity as a husband and father."

"But you were a good father." Virgil, ever the diplomat, trying for fairness even as he gave his father the evil eye. "I remember you playing with us. I remember sitting under your desk in the office here, playing with old thumb-drives, and you made a road out of string to go around under the legs. I played for hours under there, and you'd forget I was there and then you'd scratch your butt and yell in fright when I laughed." When Scott and Alan blinked at him, he said, "What? I do. It's a good memory."

Jeff bowed his head in brief acknowledgement. "I tried, Virgil. After the ultimatum, I came here and set up the office so I could do much more work from home. And I could afford a plane, then, the little Cessna 1200 that we built the strip for out back. That meant I could commute a lot more often. But before that – I was busy, working hard, and then I would come home whenever I could and it – I felt like a stranger in my own home." He shook his head, remembering. "We'd bump into each other, apologise. I can't explain it, but I was always in the way, and Lucy was always running after one of you boys."

"World's smallest violin, son. That was her life! You can't blame her for it."

"No, of course I don't. But she was pregnant so soon, and after we married I was gone almost straight away. We never had time as a couple, just getting used to each other, and we never had a moment to find our feet as a family."

"You never had your shakedown cruise," said Scott, softly. His father pounced on it.

"Yes! Exactly! We loved each other, I had no doubt of that, but we didn't know each other. Not in that intimate way that married couples can have. I didn't know who I was as Jeff Tracy, husband, or Jeff Tracy, father. But as Jeff Tracy, astronaut, head of Tracy Industries? Him I knew and felt comfortable with. And I guess Alison Reynolds belonged with that version of me." He spread his hands in honesty. "I was lonely, and I made a poor choice. I never spoke of it to anyone – not your mother, not anyone – because I didn't think it would do any good to come out. And precisely because I did love Lucy, and didn't want to see her get hurt. When we spoke that night – God, we talked for hours, about so much – I realised what I'd nearly lost, and I made a vow to myself that I would never forget it again. And I didn't."

"But she didn't tell you about ..?" Scott frowned.

"No, son. And I didn't tell her about my own indiscretion. I guess we both held back for fear of hurting the other. Oh, I wondered. Maybe part of me did more than that."

"It didn't take you long to put two and two together when Gordon said about the blood test," said Virgil.

Jeff dropped his hands to rest on his knees, looking tired and old.

"No, it didn't." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Came to me so fast it was almost like I've always been waiting for it. But I couldn't have told you that." He looked up at his boys, as close to pleading as he ever came. "We made a happy family together. I will believe to the day I die that she didn't know she was pregnant when we talked that night. I never asked, nor did she, and we both welcomed that little boy into our lives with so much love. I told myself he was proof that we were going to be fine. He was our make-up baby."

For a long moment, unusual in the Tracy household, there was silence save for the crackling of the fire. _The jury's retired to reach a verdict_ , thought Scott. _We're waiting to hear if the accused gets parole or a life sentence. No chance of acquittal. But perhaps, a chance for mercy_?

Someone had to lead the way. No rangers about. Guess it was up to the airforce.

Oo-rah indeed.

"Right." Scott clapped his hands together. "We're going out to find Gordon. Alan, get the coats, and don't forget to grab one for Gordon."

"Hold on a second!" Grandma Tracy got to her feet. "There's a thermos in the kitchen, Virgil dear. Fill it up with the eggnog on the stove."

"Thanks, Grandma," and Virgil headed into the kitchen. Scott nodded.

"Dad, I'll take that bottle of Pappy's beside you there."

His father looked at him, tiredly but with a glimmer of something hopeful.

"The Pappy's? That's more than a pound of flesh, isn't it?"

"Yes." Scott put his hand out. "It's a cold night, and our brother's gonna need a warming draught. No arguments entered into."

"None offered." Jeff reached into the drink trolley and pulled out the bottle of bourbon. He hesitated as he put it into Scott's hands. "Just – bring him home."

Scott nodded, a promise. But he paused, too. He didn't need to put the question into words.

His father nodded in his turn. "Bring him back, Scott."

For a ridiculous second something like tears stung in Scott's eyes. He stepped back, tucking the bottle into the pocket of the coat he hadn't even had a chance to take off yet. As he did he was startled by the sound of the front door opening, and of someone carefully closing it behind himself.

Gordon? But as he stepped into the hall he saw the tall shape of his other absent brother, John. Before he could say anything in welcome or warning, Alan rushed past.

"Hey, John! No time for questions. You gotta come with us. We're going to find Gordon."

"I – yes?"

Virgil pushed past Scott, working his coat on.

"John, great, good timing. We're going to find Gordon."

"Apparently." John blinked about him. "Scott?"

Scott gestured with his head, back the way John had just come.

"Ah. Right. Well – hello Dad, Grandma." John eased past Scott to put his head into the living room. "I'm off to find Gordon. Should be fun." He noticed the fire. "You might want some more logs for that."

"Alan!"

"Come on," and Alan grabbed John's coat sleeve and tugged him back up the hall, to where the door now stood open and Virgil was rummaging for his car keys.

Scott paused for a moment to meet his father's eye. An astonishing night, and now that he had his bearings, his duty and his inclination were once more aligned. He would worry for his father later; now, his worry and his focus were on Gordon. He saw that his dad had taken the moment to pour himself a glass of the inferior whiskey, and now he raised it in a salute and a promise.

There would be a welcome for his brother when he found him.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 Maps to the stars

It was a tight fit in Virgil's car. John's long legs should have guaranteed him front seat status, but Scott simply jumped in without hesitation to ride alongside the driver, his urgency leaning him forward towards the windscreen. John had the sense that his older brother would have sat on the bonnet if it made them find Gordon faster.

The whole 'finding Gordon' quest was itself somewhat odd. John never liked admitting to being wrong-footed. But he found himself in an awkward position in more ways than the fact his knees were up under his chin in the back seat, because he also liked to believe he was free of vanity. And in John's case, vanity consisted of developing and maintaining an air of mysterious self-possession, a rigorous imperturbability in the face of sibling provocations.

In practice, this meant that anything the other four threw at him, John would try to accept with a nod and a shrug.

This tactic proved to be endlessly useful. When Alan announced he'd discovered a new galaxy (he hadn't, but it was a close run thing there for a while); when Gordon connected the stars on his star chart with dental floss to create a portrait of Karl Marx (with Virgil's help on that occasion, he suspected); or when Scott suddenly demanded a calculation of the theoretical generation of dipole gravitational fields, and could he have it as soon as possible please, since he needed it for a submission this very afternoon?; in each case, John gave an unimpressed shrug and cultivated an expression of mild dyspepsia when a less contained man would tear out his hair.

But this? Being bundled back out into the cold to find an apparently lost younger brother after a day of dashing to meet work and travel deadlines across three states – well, John didn't mind admitting that this was seriously damaging his calm.

His calm was significantly further damaged when Virgil explained, as succinctly as possible (given Alan's frequent interjections and Scott's acerbic asides) exactly why Gordon wasn't with them, where they thought he might be, why they'd (foolishly, in John's opinion) not stopped to consult the anti-kidnapping tracker technology in their father's office, and what they intended doing once they found him.

"Well," John said. He paused. "The fuck?"

"Exactly," said Scott, grimly.

Virgil was driving as carefully as the icy conditions demanded and as fast as they'd allow him to go.

"Tippett's Mill is a good call," he said. "It's his favourite place around here. He's always swimming down there in summer. Remember when he rigged up the tire swing from the upper storey?"

"That thing really worked." Alan bounced on the seat beside John. "You'd get so much speed if you jumped off the roof."

"You jumped off the roof?" Scott said sharply.

"Scott. At least two years ago." John couldn't help but smile at the back of his brother's head. The only light in the car came from the two powerful headlights, and he couldn't see Scott's expression at all, but he knew the kind of worry that would be etched there. Scott subsided, but John could see where his hands were clenched on his thighs, where Virgil's hands were tight on the steering wheel as he urged the car forward in battle with the icy slickness of the country roads.

"Here's the turnoff," Alan said, sounding almost breathless.

Each of them angled forward, straining to see through the darkness at least a hundred yards before they could possibly do so.

"It should be around here…" Virgil muttered.

"There! Look! He's lit a fire!" Alan pressed forward against the back of the seat in his excitement.

"Someone's lit a fire." John, the voice of reason. Alan spared him a brief scowl.

"It's Gordon, I know it is."

Virgil eased the car across the poorly maintained track, skilfully allowing for frozen ruts and icy potholes. The headlights lit up the side of Gordon's car, and Alan's fierce, "Yes!" was silently echoed by his brothers as they drew alongside.

"Alright." Scott twisted to face everyone else in the car. "How will we play this? I think – "

But Alan had pushed open the door with a, "Good idea, Scotty," and was already barrelling across the dark and uneven terrain as if ankles and knees were titanium and tumbles never hurt.

"Ah, the element of surprise." Virgil opened his own door and stepped out too. "I think we can safely say we've lost it."

"Hey! Gordon! Gordo!" From where John stood after getting out of the car he could see Alan reach the fire and approach a dark figure on the far side of it, holding out a coat that was ignored for a moment before being snatched and hastily thrown on.

"Well, he's accepted the sacrificial coat," Virgil said, stumping off towards his younger brothers.

John followed, his cool brain trying to make sense of everything he had heard in the car. It had been a jumbled recital, but key facts were in there, and John set them apart in his mind as factors to be appraised in isolation before being brought back into the whole. The first fact was that Gordon appeared to have a father other than Jefferson Tracy. Surprising, but not strictly speaking unusual, to have a child raised in a family with their non-biological father. It was a while since he'd read anything on the subject, but the last figures he saw suggested a 5.8% median for paternal discrepancy in the US. The second fact was that this was discovered via the revelation of Gordon's different blood-type, AB according to Alan, and not voluntarily on Gordon's part, although it was suggested (not established) that Gordon had known about it. The third fact was that his father had handled the matter poorly, resulting in Gordon being upset. The fourth fact was infidelity from both Tracy parents had been revealed after Gordon left the farmhouse in the state of said upset.

Carefully keeping his footing in the tricky conditions, John came towards the fire. He could see it was built in an old oil drum, cut sideways and propped on the ground surrounded by logs positioned as seats. The fire threw enough illumination that it caught Gordon's legs in his dark blue uniform, Alan's jeans, and far above them, the old struts of the mill, abandoned in the late twentieth century and left to rot beside the mill pond. As he drew closer, his mind shifted to the facts he had collected and how he would then process them.

In seconds he considered combinatorics (not useful), dimensional analysis (maybe?), harmonic functions (really? He'd blame the cold). He could reduce his father and Gordon to factorials with his brothers and himself as binomial coefficients and –

No. He was over-thinking it, and doing so in completely the wrong direction.

The stars, as ever, were his guides. The immutability and the distance of them; the impossibility of knowing alongside the familiarity of permanent presence. Their symmetry and chaos, an oxymoron created from the tension between the human need to find a pattern and the universe's need for laws of predictability amongst random chance. In such a model rested his family, each as known as his own hands, and each as unknowable as a far flung star. They all tracked in parallel orbits, sometimes overlapping, sometimes chasing each other, sometimes colliding. It was tempting to think of Jefferson Tracy as the centre of their system, or even perhaps his mother, their inimitable Grandma. But John suspected the truth was something more abstract; the Tracys orbited an idea to which they were all fixated, and it could be labelled love, or service, or duty, or honor, but ultimately answered to 'family'. John felt the tug of it, hundreds of kilometres away in Florida, and he had no doubt others, in time, would be dragged into that same orbit; the pull was too strong.

But now, was Gordon lost to them, broken away from their solar system, spinning off into deepest space, a rogue planet?

No. Impossible. Like each one of his brothers, Gordon was a fixture in their own shared heaven.

The problem could be expressed far more elegantly without recourse to higher mathematical theory.

Did Gordon still belong in the Tracy family? Undoubtedly. Incontrovertibly.

Would he still feel able to be a part of the family? Unknown.

And, if he allowed himself a rare moment to insert his own subjectivity into this equation – what did John intend to do about it?

The answer was as blindingly clear as any successful application of theory to a puzzling mathematical problem had ever been for him; he intended to do as much as he humanly could to keep his brother safe. And until it was proven otherwise, by his father or some other factor, that was within the keep of the Tracy family.

Satisfied and clear-headed, John reached the group that now consisted of Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan, who was happily chatting as he pulled first one of Gordon's hands and then another out of Gordon's coat pocket and forced a glove on each.

"And then it turned out Grandma knew all about it. She really read Dad the riot act, called him a hypocrite and told him to take a damned hard look at himself and boy! You should have seen his face, Gordo, he was shitting blood and – "

John could see, now that he was closer, that Alan's rattle of speech was not helping. Gordon looked shell-shocked and lost. Behind his face, half hidden in shadow, the old mill formed a cavernous blackness against a night-sky full of stars. It served to emphasise his smallness, a backdrop of infinity against which his loneliness and vulnerability were painfully obvious.

Before he could say anything, Virgil stepped in.

"Okay, Al, might let Gordon get a word in there, buddy."

Alan rolled his eyes. "The point is, Gordon, that Grandma is not going to let Dad get away with it. You can come home. It will be fine, seriously."

"Maybe," Virgil said, quietly, "he doesn't want to come home?"

It seemed to John that Gordon hunched himself even smaller at the words.

"What? Are you nuts?" Alan was so outraged he seemed to spark along with the fire. "Of course he does!"

"Just leave it, Al." Gordon sounded subdued, not something John ordinarily ever associated with this brother. It was nine months since he'd seen him last, when the image he took away with him was of Gordon dressed in a tuxedo with a garish satin vest, swinging from the bannister at the Kansas City Hall Gala, bottle of champagne in his hand, leading the crowd below in a rousing chorus of the hit song of 2054, 'Sachimoto Baby'. He was a brilliant firework that night, fizzing and popping with joy, and everyone at the Gala that night had shared something of it.

To see that joy gone, that boy diminished, was abruptly painful.

Gordon looked up and caught sight of hm. Across the fire and against the darkness, John knew he was obscured. But he saw the flicker of pleasure when Gordon recognised his brother in the figure before him.

"Johnny. It's - it's real good to see you, man."

"Good to see you, too, Gordon." John smiled sadly at him, unable to dissemble. Gordon, always so quick to read his brothers, nodded and dipped his head again, hands opening and closing unconsciously at his sides.

"You heard?"

"Edited highlights. Condensed version." John peered at him. "A world of hurt in what I got."

Gordon became still, as if naming how he felt somehow pinned him to a board with the label Young Man: Immobilised.

 _Young man, illegitimate_.

"Gordon, I think Dad is coming to terms with it as we speak." Scott stamped his feet and opened his hands to the fire, seeking warmth.

"Coming to terms." The words sounded leaden as Gordon said them, and John winced internally. They suggested a flaw to be overcome, a compromise to be reached. How did one compromise on an issue of essentiality such as belonging? "He shouldn't – it's not his…"

A breach in the conversation, and Alan had never yet met one that he wasn't prepared to fling himself into.

"I know. I mean, what's there to think about? It's just bullshit, you know, patriarchy. My son, my blood, my blah-blah. It's just so bullshit, right? Right?' He looked around at his brothers, seeking confirmation.

"No, it's not," Gordon said, dully. "It's fact."

"How long have you known?" Scott, still digging for those same facts, and that one was as irrelevant and as pointed as anything said today, John guessed. Because he immediately got the subtext, whether Scott meant to put it there or not, and he knew that Gordon would be seeing it writ large and pulsing red in this darkness; how long have you walked amongst us, how long have you broken bread with us, how long have you celebrated with us, partied with us, mourned with us, and known you were not really one of us?

"What does it matter?" Ah, loyal Virgil, with a heart too big to second guess a loyalty or question a kinship.

Scott, however. John peered through the sudden flurry of sparks and smoke as his older brother dropped another small log on the fire. Scott needed things clear-cut, sorted. He would need as much data as possible in order to sense a rightness of course.

"I think I can guess." John moved closer into the light, the warmth. "You were, what? Eleven? Twelve? Eleven, I think. You wanted those v-certs. I'm guessing – a DNA test?"

Gordon stared at him, still frozen in place. His eyes were black holes, hidden beneath his cap.

"Eleven? All that time?" Scott was astounded.

"All that time," Virgil murmured, and there was nothing but sorrow in the look he gave Gordon. " _Jesus._ "

"Why didn't you say anything?" Scott demanded. Then he checked himself. "No, of course not. Of _course_ not. God, Gordo. This has been – this must have been so god-damned shitty for you." Scott reached out a hand and gripped Gordon's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

John could see Gordon stiffen with surprise, which in turn surprised him. _What had he expected? Rejection? Banishment_?

Yes. John blinked, momentarily overcome by the realisation. _Dear lord, yes. He had._ For all these years, the little boy he'd been and the young man he'd become had kept this secret tucked tight, with everything he was and everything he hoped to be hanging on the knife edge of discovery. A flood of memories assailed him, brilliantly etched with acid; of Gordon always pushing too far, trying too hard, smiling too wide, laughing too loud. Gordon, filling the void that only he could see beneath their feet, the one that contained a moment when distraction failed and there would be a chance for double takes, second looks, murmured conjecture, grim discovery.

He felt his throat growing unusually tight.

"It's not your fault," Gordon said.

"Not yours, either," Scott replied, promptly. Gordon gave a slight shrug.

"I dunno. I ruined Christmas."

Alan was quick to that.

"No you didn't. Virgil did."

"Yeah, thanks Al." Virgil pulled his coat firmly across his chest.

"You've ruined nothing," said Scott, with all the conviction he could somehow summon when he needed it. "We're still the Tracy boys. We're still a family."

John couldn't read Gordon's expression, but his shoulders were as tense as they'd been when he arrived.

"What are you thinking?" John asked. At the same moment, Virgil said, "What are you feeling?"

Their unintended unison caused Gordon to give a huff that on another day might have been laughter.

Scott intervened. "How about, rather than us asking you questions, you ask what you want to know?"

Another moment of shrinking, as those tight shoulders drew in again; and then, as John watched, Gordon lifted his chin and forced his shoulders back. Whatever he was about to ask, John knew, it was coming at a price.

He expected something about whether his brothers could overlook this, whether his father would welcome him home. He expected a 'where to now'? foray. What he didn't foresee was what Gordon actually asked, quietly, in a voice that had been distilling this question for seven years.

"Was she raped?"

Shocked intakes of breath around the fire. John found a brief second of comfort that his powers of deduction weren't the only ones failing here tonight; nobody else saw that one coming.

Gordon read their silence as confusion.

"Am I here because – am I the result of something awful?"

"God, no," cried Virgil, but Scott held up his hand.

"Hold on. Wait a sec, Virge. We don't help anything if we sugar-coat this now." Scott put his hand back on Gordon's shoulder. "We don't know for sure, Gordon, but from what Grandma said, I really don't think so."

That was more than John knew. Scott had more to say, clearly, but the airing of that question seemed to have galvanised Gordon, unnaturally succinct until now.

"What if every time she looked at me she remembered that? What if I'm some – some _asshole_ ' _s_ kid? And now this has changed everything, it has, we can never go back. I never meant for anyone to know. I didn't mean to trick you, I know it looks like that but that's not what I – when I covered it up, it was just to keep everything the way it was. And I could pretend that he was – that Dad was – "

His voice, so urgent, died away. It was if something beyond his control had sucked away his words. After a moment in silence he raised a hand to his face and hid his mouth, shutting it and his secret fears away in a futile attempt at self-preservation.

"Gordo." Alan grabbed his arm. "This is all pretty crazy right now, and it's really hard to keep track of who did what to who and who knew about it, but you gotta know, it doesn't matter. To us, I mean. I dunno about Dad, he was kinda worked up."

Virgil gave a groan of protest, but Alan blundered on.

"No, but I mean, just with surprise, don't you think, Virgil? I mean, Grandma had him coming around. She was just like one of those sheepdogs, you know, just at his heels till he admitted he'd been kinda shitty way back then and Mom had every right to pick up what someone else was puttin' down. You know?" Alan peered around in the dark, and what he saw in his brothers' faces made him immediately defensive. "What? It's true!"

"Yes," Virgil glared at Alan, "there was a frank and fearless exchange and several home truths were undoubtedly delivered." He softened his look towards Gordon. "The point is, you're still our brother. Bottom line. And we'll – all of us – fight the good fight against anyone who says otherwise, Dad included."

"Dad won't say that." Scott was adamant. "He's sorry, Gords, he wants you home."

Gordon looked at him, searching for a certainty long lost to him over years of hiding.

"Why? I mean, he knows now. He knows I'm not his son." He gave a crooked kind of laugh, raw and cold. Something in the logs on the fire suddenly caught and spat little venoms of flame. "I don't even know who my – my real father is."

"Oh, but Grandma does," said Alan, comfortingly. Gordon's eyes grew wide, and he quickly looked to Virgil for confirmation.

Virgil hesitated. "Yes. Yes, she does, or at least, she did. So does Scott, and probably John."

" _What?_ "

John didn't echo Gordon's cry, but it was a near thing.

Scott grimaced, then nodded. "Yeah, I guess we did. I can remember him, a bit."

"And..?" prompted Virgil.

"Well…" John could see how reluctant Scott was about this, and he understood. What kind of glamour did childhood memories cast across barely remembered people from the past? And this mattered so much to Gordon, who was so dependent here on the fragments being offered. "He was a nice guy. He was kind to us kids, kind to Mom as I can recall. He had some kind of accent, I think, I don't know what sort. But he was great with us, took us fishing. Built us a fort."

It was John's turn to take a metaphorical reel back.

"Uncle Declan? _He_ was Gordon's father?"

Gordon, clearly overcome, sat suddenly down on one of the logs by the fire. Alan quickly sat beside him.

"He sounds pretty cool, hey?"

Dazedly, Gordon shook his head.

"I don't remember a whole lot," said Scott, apologetic and clearly chafing at the paucity of what he had to offer. "I do remember that he looked after us on some afternoons, and he somehow found the time to play in the space station."

"Cave," muttered John. He was ignored, as he knew he would be.

"What did he look like?' Alan, agog with curiosity.

"Is he still here?' The question was almost fierce from Gordon, and John could only guess at what turbulence buffeted Gordon's mind in this moment. "Am I going to bump into him going into the store?"

"I haven't seen him in years," said Scott, and John wondered if that was meant to comfort or apologise. "I think if I remember right he was a bit of a drifter."

"Shit." Gordon put his head in his hands.

"If you want to find him, we'll help." John said it with as much gentleness as he could muster. "If you don't want to find him, he won't be mentioned again."

Gordon gave a kind of helpless laugh, muffled against his hands.

"I have no idea what I want. No, wait. I know. I want to be coming in the front door again, and saying hello to everybody, and leaving my goddam dogtags in my bag and never taking them out."

As someone who rarely indulged in those kinds of regrets, John struggled to find a response to his brother's. He could point out that the wish was an impossible one, likely to be a temporary delay of the inevitable at best, and generally a waste of effort all round. Given that was unlikely to be helpful, he offered something else instead.

"Did you ever wonder why I helped you with the v-cert?"

"No." The answer was still obscured through his hands.

"I'd been reading." That was a straight line that ordinarily would have prompted a range of comebacks and cries of overdone shock, but tonight it seemed no one had the heart for it. "All about self-determination. It's the idea that people have innate needs and set about meeting those needs in various ways, all of which require effort and agency and commitment."

Gordon raised his head with infinite weariness.

"And you figured I had a need?"

"You did. You needed to find out that you were related to Dad."

"Wow. Yeah." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Good call, Johnny."

John waved that away. "I didn't know that was precisely what you needed, just that you had a need. Self- determination theory is about motivation, and you were motivated to do something that I could help you with. Your choice, your motivation, your agency."

"Right. Good. My fault. I get it."

"No, you don't, because I haven't got to it yet."

"Any time soon would be good," said Virgil.

"Okay. Gordon – no, scratch that. Scott." His brother blinked in response. "How would you define a family?"

"Uh – a family? I guess – it's a group of people related to each other by birth?"

"Yes, true, in a legal and literal sense, but we all know of families who are related by birth and who have nothing to do with each other."

"So you mean in a non-legal and un-literal sense?" It was said jokingly, but Virgil was following him closely.

"Yes. Exactly. Guys, it's self-determination." John waited several beats for them all to cry out their understanding. He was met by the hiss of wood on the fire and the sound of a dog, somewhere far distant, barking at the moon.

"Thanks, John. Good talk."

"It's an act of will." John tried again. "An act of determination. Family is only defined by blood at its most primitive and biological level. Family as a social unit has far more to do with an act of will, a consensus between people that together they create an entity which has value to them, which both has meaning in itself and gives them meaning and purpose they would not otherwise have."

Each of his brothers was looking at him now, rendered silent by either incomprehension or awe. John was in little doubt that awe was highly unlikely.

At last, Virgil spoke.

"We're the Tracy family because we say so?"

John shrugged. "Ultimately, yes. Always. We reify the family every time we act as if it exists and it matters to us."

Scott nodded, slowly. "It wouldn't really matter who was in it. If we decide that someone else is part of the family, they become so?"

"Clearly."

"And this would be the case regardless of biological factors." Virgil grinned. "Sometimes, John, you say the most amazing stuff."

"Does this mean anyone can get to be a Tracy family member?" Alan was frowning.

"If we all agree to it, yes." John smiled at him. "What will happen when you find the perfect person some day and partner him or her? They'll be family, won't they?"

"Well, duh."

"An act of will." Scott grinned suddenly. "I don't know anyone on the planet who has a stronger will than Dad."

"If he says so, it is so," agreed Alan.

"What do you think, Gords?" Virgil asked the question softly, sitting down on the other side of Gordon.

"We make it work by wishing it so?" Gordon had dropped his hands away and was looking up at John now, his face a study in tension. "Bit easy, isn't it?"

"Because it is," said Alan. "That's what I've been telling you. You're our brother. It's what we decided. Well, we didn't even decide it, did we guys, we just knew."

"It's our reality," John affirmed. "It's our act of will."

"We can make that work." Virgil rubbed his hands together, and blew on them. "In the meantime, what say we take this back home? I don't know about anyone else, but I am freezing my butt off here. And I'm supposed to be playing at the church tomorrow – can't if these are frost bitten." He waggled his fingers.

"Good idea, Virge. Let's go." Scott clapped Gordon on the back, and made to move off, but John kept his eyes on Gordon. Everything in his brother's body language told a different story, and when Gordon lifted his face to them all, mouth twisting, he knew before he said anything exactly what his brother was going to say.

"You go on. I'm driving back to KC tonight."

"Nooo, Gordo." Alan made it sound as if his brother had misspoken lines in a play. "You're coming back with us."

"No, I'm not." Gordon's tone was low, and throbbed with feeling, but John heard finality in it. "I'll leave the car at the office and get a cab to the airport. Be back in San Diego in time for Christmas lunch tomorrow."

"Is this punishment? For Dad?" Scott folded his arms. "He wants you home."

"Yeah?" Gordon raised his voice. "Tell me, Scott. What did he say, exactly?'

"What do you mean?"

"Did he tell you he wanted me home? What were his exact words?"

"Well," Scott began. "Well, I think he said something like 'Bring him back.'"

Gordon closed his eyes briefly, shielding the pain. "Yeah. That sounds about right. You know, if the colonel asked the MPs to bring in an AWOL officer, he'd use those words, too."

"He wants you home, Gords," Scott insisted.

"Does he?" Gordon threw his arms wide. "Where is he then? He didn't come himself, did he? All I've got is your word for it, and face it, Scott, you've always been his right hand man. You've worshipped at his altar for a long time now. Well guess what. I've been standing here for about an hour, and the thing I keep coming back to is he blew it. He really, really blew it. All these years I've been thinking about how he would react, and let me tell you my happy place fantasy looked nothing like what I got there tonight." Something in his eyes caught the dying light of the fire; John didn't need to look closer to know it was tears, of anger, of grief. "He ditched me. He _ditched_ me, Scott, and if I go back there right now I don't know what I'm going to say. I've got so much – " He took a long, shuddering breath, then shook his head. "You don't want that. I don't want to burn all my bridges, and tonight? I feel like blowing them all to hell."

There was silence, painful, as each brother sought a way past Gordon's impasse. Finally, as he so often did, Alan spoke first. He sounded more like the child he'd been just a year or two ago than the young man he strived to play.

"But – you can't go. You'll miss Christmas."

"No I won't." Gordon reached out to him, gave a gentle tap on his arm. "They have a great Christmas at WASP. And I'll be back early, means I can get into training the next day. We've got some amazing trials coming up. I might even get picked for them, if I put in the extra work."

"Is that your final word?"

Gordon looked at Scott. "For now. I got to sort my thinking out, Scott. You get it, don't you?"

Reluctantly, Scott nodded. "But this isn't – you'll come back. You will come back."

"If I'm still welcome."

Scott put his hand out, and after a moment's hesitation, Gordon gripped it.

"Always. You remember that, little brother."

"It will be a dull Christmas without you," said Virgil, coming closer to shake Gordon's hand as well.

"You'll have me," Alan said, sounding unhappy but determined not to show it more than he could help. "I'll have to bring the Alan magic. God knows that's saved a whole bunch of family dinners. "

"Said no one ever," Virgil winced.

"Well, I just did!"

"Uh – that's not a win, Al."

Scott ignored them both. "And anyway, who said you are going to miss Christmas? We brought a little Christmas with us. Virgil? You've got the thermos?"

"Right, yeah. Some of Grandma's eggnog." He busied himself pulling it from inside his coat as Gordon surreptitiously wiped his eyes, and then groaned.

"Grandma's? God, Virge, have you no pity?"

"Ah-ah. I checked it as I poured it in. Doesn't look like it's got any lumps this year." Virgil unscrewed the cup and poured a little of the creamy mixture into it. "I'm taking that as a sign."

"And as I liberated Dad's Pappy van Winkle," Scott said, reaching to take the cup and splashing a generous amount from the bottle retrieved from his own jacket, "I'd say we have the makings of a pretty fine little Christmas right here."

He passed it to Virgil, who raised it up and said, "To the Tracy Boys. All five of them," before taking a sip and passing it to John.

He raised it in turn.

"To acts of will and self-determination," he said, and sipped. He gave it to Gordon, who held it low, then took a mouthful, grimacing at the hit of bourbon, before passing it to Scott.

"You'll always be a Tracy, Gordon," and he sealed the statement with a drink.

"And a universal recipient." At Virgil's and John's sudden, shocked laughter, Alan said, "It's true! I learned it last year."

"Right, none for you," and Virgil swiped the cup back from Scott.

"Hey, no fair!" Alan grinned. "As if I want that stuff, anyway." And then, startling everyone, he turned suddenly and wrapped Gordon in a hug. He spoke into the soft hair at Gordon's neck, his voice muffled. "I hate that you're going."

"Yeah. I hate it, too." Gordon hugged him back, hard. "You stay cool, yeah? Don't go letting these nerds corrupt you into the dark ways of nerd-dom."

"I won't." Alan released him at last and without another look, headed away to their car.

"Guess we're going." Virgil stepped forward for his own hug. "You take care of yourself, you hear me? You know where we are, you call if you want anything." He pulled back to shake Gordon lightly, his face serious. "I mean it."

"Yeah, I know you do. See you round, Virge."

With one more grip and a long stare, as if to set the image of him in his mind forever, Virgil turned away and followed Alan.

Scott grinned ruefully. "You're a pain in the ass, Gordo, but you're our pain in the ass." He wrapped him up in his arms, strong and sure. "Don't you forget it."

Gordon shook his head, and there was something just a little more desperate in his hold on his eldest brother as they embraced just a little too long to have the casual vibe they both would no doubt say they wanted. John waited patiently as they held tight, wondering if they realised how scared they each looked as they faced the dark over the other's shoulder.

"Okay. Okay." Scott finally let go and stepped back. "You stay in touch. Drive safely." At Gordon's nod, Scott left, soon disappearing away from the firelight.

Gordon cleared his throat and turned to John.

"I haven't seen you for so long and now this."

"We'll catch up again. Soon."

"If we will it so?"

John smiled. "Now he gets it."

"Come _on_ , John!" That was Alan, hanging half in and half out of the car. John tipped his head in Alan's direction.

"Delicate flower, isn't he?"

"I'm really going to miss you guys," Gordon suddenly blurted out. He gave a shaky laugh. "Crazy, isn't it? I haven't seen any of you for months, so I should be used to being away, but this feels so different."

"It's not." John shrugged. "Or at least, it's only different if you allow it to be. Can I ask you something?"

Gordon's expression gave permission.

"Was I wrong to get you that v-cert? If I hadn't – would it have made a difference to your childhood?"

In the last of the firelight, Gordon's face was half in shadow. The half John could see looked haunted, as if Gordon was re-visiting all those years of secrecy and fear. In the end, resignation.

"It is what it is, right? Nothing was ever going to change it." He put his hand out, a move ignored by John in favour of pulling him in to one of his rare hugs.

"Wow. Look at you going all soft on us."

"Hey. It's Christmas."

"Yeah."

"Gordon? You know that when we say 'family', we're saying something else, too."

Difficult, this admission, but finally a soft, "Yeah. I got that."

"Good. Merry Christmas, Gordon."

John walked carefully back to the car, where Virgil had already started the engine to get some heat going.

The stars so far above him caught his soul in icy hooks and lifted it from the ground. A spectacular, wheeling infinity beckoned. It was astonishing, in a way, that one small tragedy of one small boy child would capture him just as completely, here on Earth, on frozen Kansas soil.

In John's mind it demeaned them, these giants, these expanses of light, to do something as puerile as wish upon them. And yet, on this night, he found himself echoing a wish long lost, made by a boy long gone, when he and Scott and baby Virgil sat with their mother beside the fire, beneath the tree, one Christmas Eve long ago. In the still of this night he sent the wish out again, and made a superstition into a benediction of love.

Keep my family safe, stars. Keep all of my family safe.

 _ **End of the first story in this series**_


End file.
